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"This one's going to leave a scar," Tristan tells Gawain, needle piercing skin and drawing the wound closed. "And it'll be a pretty one, too. All the way across your shoulderblade." He doesn't pause to ask if Gawain's going to be all right; Gawain's nearly green around the gills, so the best thing to do is finish the job. And do it quickly.
"At least I managed to gut the bastard," Gawain breathes. "I hate this part of it."
"No one enjoys getting hurt."
"The cut didn't hurt so much. But this--" Gawain puts his teeth together and draws in a breath. "Sometimes getting patched is worse than getting wounded."
"Especially when it means you won't be moving that arm for a few days. Hard to get in your celebratory roll in the sheets with Galahad when--"
Gawain half-turns, glaring over his good shoulder at Tristan.
"Never mind," Tristan mutters, making the next stitch.
"He's right, you know. It is going to leave a scar."
Gawain growls, but he lets Galahad poke at the stitches. "How many are there?" he asks.
"Twenty-two."
Gawain lets out a low whistle. "So many?"
"It's a long cut. And you're lucky it wasn't deeper or dirtier. I suppose you can say that for the raiders -- they kept their weapons clean."
"Easy for you to say," Gawain snorts. "You're not the one Tristan had to patch."
"True," Galahad concedes. He smiles, running his hands down the rest of Gawain's back. "The rest of you seems healthy enough, though..."
"If that's an offer, I hope you're prepared to wait." Gawan pulls the covers back and slides under them, rolling to his side. "I'm hardly in a mood for wrestling."
"You? Not in the mood? Not even after battle?" Galahad's jaw drops, but he follows Gawain into bed anyway. "Are you sure you don't just need... convincing?" he asks, snaking an arm over Gawain's waist and sliding it down until his fingers are brushing over his cock.
"No," Gawain snaps, grabbing Galahad by the wrist and forcing his hand away. "Go to sleep."
Galahad sighs and finally rolls closer, getting comfortable. It presses his erection against Gawain's arse, but the hell with hiding it; if he can't bring a hard cock to bed without pissing Gawain off, that's not his problem, damn it.
Gawain tries inching away and grunting, but the grunt's not scary enough to make his lover move away. Stubborn little bastard. It's going to be a long night.
Gawain's up and out of bed before Galahad's even awake, and Galahad blinks bleary eyes open as he hears Gawain trying to dress. "For pity's sake," he mutters. "What's the matter with you? Get back in bed."
Gawain doesn't listen; he's trying too hard to get into a shirt without moving his right shoulder, a move that takes considerably more concentration than he expected. Galahad has plenty of time to walk over to him, despite sleep still making his movements awkward and slow.
"Get back in bed," Galahad repeats, putting one hand on Gawain's good shoulder and the other on the opposite hip. He pushes, and Gawain stumbles forward a step, propelled towards the bed.
Gawain snarls over his shoulder for the second time in two days. "You're not my nursemaid, you're my lover. Stop it. I don't need--"
Galahad gives Gawain's arse a hard smack. "Stop it yourself," he says. "Get back in bed and then tell me what this is about. It's not about the shoulder itself, is it?"
Gawain wishes he could glare longer. It never works with Galahad, though, and he ends up rolling onto his stomach in bed, letting his arm stretch down by his side so as not to tear the stitches.
"I hate being scarred," Gawain says quietly.
Nodding, Galahad stays silent, running his fingertips up the center of Gawain's back. There are a number of scars on his back, his shoulders, his arms. Every one has a story; Gawain's told him most of them.
"It reminds me of what they've made me," Gawain murmurs. "Not the knights -- the Romans. What the Romans want from me, and what they're responsible for doing." He pauses, struggling with the last of it, trying to decide whether to say it or not. "They're all pieces of this life, the one I'm in because the rest of it was stolen from me. From all of us."
After a while, Galahad ventures, "I never knew you were bitter about that." Gawain doesn't answer, so Galahad waits and shares silence until he can order his words and think of something more to say. "I know I'm bitter. Most of us are bitter. But for you..." He sighs. "It always seemed like this was your life, for as long as you could remember."
"It is," Gawain whispers. "It's a beautiful life, and I love it. And it's an ugly life, and I hate who they've made me."
Galahad stretches out at Gawain's side, wrapping an arm around his waist. "You don't need to hate yourself for anything," he says softly. "I love your scars. All of them."
Gawain grunts. "You love my scars," he repeats. And after a moment's pause, "Why?"
"Because every one of them's a blow you survived." Galahad presses his lips to Gawain's shoulder, below the new line of stitches that will mark another scar. "Because each of them's a battle that didn't take you."
Gawain turns his head and faces Galahad, and while his expression hasn't changed -- still stormy -- his eyes are a little softer now. "You've got a romantic heart under the leather armor," he murmurs.
"Maybe," Galahad admits. He brushes the hair back from Gawain's forehead. "But it's yours."
-end-