He was striving for innocuous unsuccessfully at the moment what with constant drip, drip, drip, down the back of his colarinho, colar like slow water torture from the caixa de escada, escada above.

Still, it was an excellent vantage point for rua level. That is so long as he continued to crouch just below sight lines. He flexed fatigued thigh muscles cracking his spine for good measure and felt some semblance of relief in the movement.

Damp leather gloves adjusted his colarinho, colar as he hissed feeling the pull of the impromptu patchwork quilt Merlin had done closing the wound on his forearm just hours before; would have to see to that soon before possible infection set in. After all, it was his favoured arm.

Never missed a kill shot with it, investment that.

His teeth began to chatter as he exhaled while irritable pale eyes lazily tracked the coil of his own breath dispersing like tendrils into the cold night air.

It was the endless waiting he hated most in his profession.

Thirty minutes, his ass. Why had she picked this dejected little spot on a backstreet for the meet, if she bloody well could not find it for a start? He’d amor to see her navigate these back stairs in her usual ridiculous heels, considering how slick and wet the railings were.

Arthur grinned maliciously, imagining the fussy little cadela, puta trying to balance and look dignified whilst climbing; it would be quite the show. A sudden gust of wind made his joy short lived however as cold gray-blue eyes narrowed in displeasure when the clack of rapidly approaching heels on wet cement caught his attention.

DeGrace.

Damn her to hell and back! Only she would take it upon herself to call him out on a night like this. A night better served por sleep after a seventy-two hora assignment that had been touch and go at best, the retrieval team nearly botching the exit strategy.

The abrupt halt of her familiar footfalls and a switch in directions – she must be lost. He would have to retrieve her. Dear God how had he ever been saddled with DeGrace as contact?
Arthur stood, adjusting his casaco with an irritated flourish, just as the screech of a fast moving vehicle sailed below him in the alley, closely followed por a barrage of dull pop, popping sounds that echoed into the night chorused por those same heels skidding progressivo, para a frente as the car rounded the corner and fled the scene.

It took but a moment to jump down from his vantage, not the brightest idea under the circumstances, his shin bones felt it. She looked so damned defiant in profile, wet hair clinging to her face as she panted and blinked away the rain, her hands shaking but grip still firm on the gun.

She hadn’t even noticed him yet standing behind her now, so bent and determined in her assigned task, chin thrust progressivo, para a frente and jaw clenched.

“Your accuracy has improved, DeGrace,” Arthur murmured lightly twisting her wrist forcing her fingers apart as he effortlessly retrieved the firearm from her slackened grip. “Your peripheral vision still needs work, however.”

“In case you missed it, Pendragon I was attempting to save your sorry ass!”

Arthur smirked. “Sorry. It was either that or you would have shot me point blank out of blind terror alone.”

Rubbing her wrist, Gwen scowled. He did have a point. She would have rounded on him in the adrenalin rush, just as in practice.

She so hated when he was right.

~~~

KBrand - Relay 1

"You missed," he said coldly, returning her firearm to her.

"How do you know?" she raised her face to him, face tight, attempting to ignore the rain as it dripped in her eyes and plastered her hair to her cheeks. Keep your mind on the task, ignore all else. No discomfort, no pain. No pleasure. The target is the only thing that matters. Arthur's words flashed through her mind once again.

"Because the car kept going, woman." He rolls his eyes in exasperation. "And for the record, back alleys are not ideal locations for this kind of work."

"Don't call me 'woman,'" she interrupts, irritated. "And what are ideal locations, pray?" She crosses her arms over her chest, cocking her hip to one side.

"Public places. Crowds. Sporting events. Concerts. Shopping malls. There is remarkable safety in the anonymity of a crowd." Absentmindedly Arthur reaches progressivo, para a frente to free a curl that has glued itself to her cheek, and she grabs his arm. He hisses in pain and jerks it away.

"What happened to you?" she asks, choosing for the moment to ignore what he was reaching to do. Why would he do that?

"Damn mission. Leon and Gwaine got caught up and we almost didn't make it out. Arm got slashed por a guard wielding a rusty but sharp piece of scrap metal. Merlin only had a moment to patch me up before I had to rush out here to see you. And you were late. And then you missed," he growled, spinning away from her, heading for the shelter of a nearby alcove. She followed, heels clicking loudly.

It irritated him.

"Honestly, DeGrace, get some quieter shoes," he scolds, poking through his mobile, checking the database to find the seguinte opportunity. "There are deaf people over in France that could hear you approaching in those damn things."

"I'll have you know that I can outrun you in these damn things," she reminds him.

"Doesn't matter if they can hear you three miles away," he says, not looking at her. "Ah. The target will be attending an opera opening in two days' time. Do you have a ball gown?" He raises an eyebrow at her.

~~~

EpicArwen - Relay 2

One sunrise, a great deal of well-earned shut eye and a few assignment-inspired shopping trips later found Arthur and his team gathered in his penthouse.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And waiting.

Just when his eternal patience was about to wear thin, the bedroom door opened and Gwen DeGrace appeared before them, like an angel from heaven striking a devilish pose.

Arthur Pendragon took one look at the luscious leg peeking out from the folds of red satin and issued an unpopular judgment.

“The slit is too high.”

Hands on hips, Gwen’s full, bowed lips tightened with irritation. This was, after all, the third dress in the past half hora he’d discarded on some petty little complaint. "As my role in this job has been relegated to a mere distraction, how is ‘too high’ even possible?”

“You are meant to distract the target…" Arthur answered smoothly from his poleiro as he lounged on the couch. "... not our own men.”

He glanced at the very men in question, pleased -- and yet irritatingly annoyed -- to see they were doing quite their best to prove his point. Down to the last man. Gwaine, Leon, Percy -- even Merlin’s -- dazed gazes were fixed on the defiant leg that refused to retreat.

His attention snapped back to Gwen. Or rather, Gwen’s leg.

Toned and shapely, the lone appendage stood as a testament to its owner’s physique. A physique whose exquisite hourglass shape Arthur was becoming quite familiar with as of late. And pleasurably so. Though she usually irritated the hell out of him, at times, being her trainer did have its perks. Like when her soft body would collide and instinctively mold into his. As it did just last week...

Arthur forcefully pulled his thoughts back to the present. He eased himself from his assento and advanced toward her with slow, deliberate steps. “Besides, that would never conceal a lethal weapon.”

“I didn’t realize you'd allow me to handle one on the job so soon.”

“Oh, you’ll be allowed.” The was sultry and low promising so much mais than his permission to handle a gun. Gwen’s eyes sparked with interest. After all, wasn't Arthur Pendragon himself considered a 'lethal weapon'?

Arthur’s fingers made contact with Gwen’s inner thigh and trailed upward. Slowly. Surely. Teasingly. He noted with increased satisfaction the way her eyes darkened from chocolate amber to midnight black. The slight hitch in her breathing was enough to know he had an effect on her. Good. It was always best to have the upper hand in situations such as these.

He bit back a knowing smile, his caress halting two inches below the dress' opening. “No higher than this."

Knowing full well what he was doing, Gwen's eyes glinted dangerously. “Any other…tips? Or shall I continue the fashion show until you and the boys have had your fill?”

Arthur smirked then angled his blonde head toward the door signaling his silent command.

Gwen sighed as if in defeat. “You heard him, boys. Our royal highness requires a show.” Then she complied with Arthur's wishes -- on her own terms. “Now which of you dashing gents would like to help me with this zipper?”

Four men jumped from the couch. Four men struggled to be the first to reach her. Only one succeeded.

“Ah, Gwaine." She flashed him an adoring smile. "And such big hands you have. I rather think I shall enjoy your assistance."

Taking Gwaine's hand, Gwen led him toward the bedroom.

But not before tossing a suddenly jealous Arthur a saucy wink.

````

A distraction. That’s what she called herself. And that is certainly what she was.

He was meant to be resting. He was meant to be thinking. He was meant to be planning.

All he could do was stare.

She stood in the frame of the half-opened door, the length of her in the form-fitting dress such an enticing sight that Arthur Pendragon quite forgot his own name.

Which was, after all, the goal.

For the target.

Though, for this particular target, Arthur seriously doubted Gwen would need do anything but wink and smile. It was often that way with former loves.

Arthur sighed and opened the folder bearing the target's specs, wondering how the hell he was going to keep Gwen on point when she realized it was Lancelot du Lac's life on the line.

~~~

KBrand - Relay 3

"Where the hell is she?" Arthur looks at his Rolex, frowning at her disdain for punctuality. He would have to remind her that minutes, even segundos can mean the difference between who it is that is on the receiving end of the kill shot.

At the fonte outside the main doors of the opera house. 7:45 p.m. sharp.

He sighs, irritated, and adjusts the harmless-looking cufflinks at his wrists. His hand reaches up to check his hair, which is slicked back away from his face, making it appear much darker than it actually is. That coupled with a very convincing false mustache and goatee complete his disguise.

The only distinguishing characteristics you may have are temporary ones.

The fonte is large and circular. Arthur decides to walk around it, on the off-chance that she is standing on the other side. He starts a slow circuit, striving to appear as a young man waiting for his date. It is not difficult, because that is essentially what he is doing.

Eyes scan the crowd, the people walking past, looking for the familiar head of dark brown curls. An old couple walking arm in arm. A young couple walking hand in hand. Another man looking for his companion. A woman applying lipstick.

No. This woman has short, straight, jet-black hair, cropped in a 1920's-style bob. She turns her head slightly, and he catches a glimpse of eyeglass frames beneath blunt-cut fringe. Not her.

Still...

He stops and takes a moment to enjoy the view. Long black dress hugging a curvaceous figure, perfectly shaped ass, toned arms and shoulders sitting proudly atop the strapless gown. A lily tattooed on her right shoulder. Bright red heels and a red clutch purse.

Wait. He steps closer, noting that this woman has the same latte-colored skin as DeGrace. She turns her head again, this time further. Bloody hell. It's her. Arthur grits his teeth angrily. He was checking out his apprentice. His trainee, for God's sake.

She didn't say anything about a wig. And that is not the dress he chose. Damn her.

Arthur walks to her, changing his normally silent gait so that she can hear his footfalls approaching. He doesn't want to startle her and end up flipped into the fountain.

"Ah, there you are, darling," Arthur says brightly, approaching her and bending to kiss her on the cheek.

Guinevere jumps slightly, not expecting the kiss. They were to appear as a couple out for a night of opera, but she was not prepared for that.

"I was waiting on the other side of the fountain," he says, his voice joking but his eyes were hard and cold as he looks pointedly at her, reminding her of her role.

"Oh, yes, silly me," she recovers and says brightly, taking his offered arm. "Do you have the tickets?"

"Yes, of course dear," he says, patting his breast pocket. Then, between gritted teeth, "What the hell are you wearing?"

"I didn't like the blue one. I couldn't mover properly in it, the sleeves were too restricting. And what did you think you were doing back there?" she mutters back to him, attempting to turn the tables back to him.

"Pretense, DeGrace. The mais we appear as a normal couple, the less conspicuous we are." With that, they reach the queue to present their tickets, stopping to shuffle along with the rest of the patrons.

He puts his arm around her shoulders. It unnerves her slightly, but she tries not to shrink away. Pretense, DeGrace.

"This had better be false," he mutters again, running his thumb lightly across the tattoo on her shoulder. To the casual observer it appears as nothing mais than a man caressing the shoulder of his lover.

"It is," Gwen shoots back, angry at the little flip-flop her stomach did at his touch. "Contrary to what you may think, I do listen to you. Anything distinctive should be temporary," she adds, then reaches up to stroke his goatee, illustrating her point.

He presents their tickets to the attendant, who hands them back with a smile. "Enjoy the opera," the woman says as they walk into the sumptuous lobby, sauntering casually through the metal detectors on the way in.

Arthur's eyes scan the room for any sign of the target, still unsure of how Gwen is going to react when she finds out who their assignment is. As he looks around, his hand slides of its own accord across her shoulders and runs down her arm to take her hand in his.

Gwen bites her lower lip, shiny and red, furious with her body as it once again betrays her. She exhales sharply, and clenches her jaw.

Somewhere deep down the softness of her skin coupled with the view he just got of her cleavage rising above the corpete of her dress registers with his mais primal, male instincts. He blinks for a moment, clearing his head, and continues his scan of the room.

Distraction indeed.

ElegantPaws - Relay 4

Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde.
Gwen furrowed her brows after casting her eyes briefly at the ticket stubs Arthur handed her to place in her clutch for seguro keeping.

Not one of her favourites. Funny coincidence considering Lance adored this particular opera.

She hadn’t thought of him in a year. How time flew.

Her lips curled into a sad, half smile while quietly following Arthur as he made polite sounds, pardoning them as they took their seats, dead centre – odd choice, considering they might need to make a fast exit, but then, this was not the kill zone, merely for observation and introduction at intermission.

They sat, examined the program dutifully and made the requisite cooing and billing sounds, smiling vacantly at their seating companions, agents, to their respective right and left.

As she recalled adoration would not quite cut it. She adjusted her xaile for the umpteenth time and carefully crossing her legs, revealing a length of shapely thigh and felt rather than saw Arthur shift in his assento uncomfortably.

“Must you fidget so?”

She cut her eyes at her ‘date’ ignoring the comment made through gritted teeth and began swinging said shapely limb in defiance.

There were perks to one’s legs being shorter than the average gazela - far mais leg room - her thoughts drifting back to her ex, or mais accurately his near obsession with the epically dramatic amor story. Yes. Lancelot adored his tragedies. His other favourites, if she recalled correctly were Madame borboleta and Romeo and Juliet.

“Such a sucker for angst,” she murmured absently, oblivious to a set of piercing blue eyes fixed like a predator on the shapely pendulum that swung mesmerizingly back and forth.

Why was it so damned hot in here, he wondered not for the first time since seated?

The pleasing scent of soap and aftershave wafted to her nostrils when Arthur leaned in, warm breath fanning her cheek as he spoke. “You will stop making a spectacle of yourself, DeGrace.”

Gwen glared at the offending palm that had taken purchase on a silk clad knee, stilling its metronome-like motion. “You, Sir, have control issues.”

“And you, Little Madame, are far too wilful.”

It really was best to ignore him until intermission. No time for one of their myriad little tiffs. She cut her eyes at her companion busy adjusting his colarinho, colar again.

Why hadn’t she and Lancelot worked exactly?

“DeGrace?”

She could answer it now, a ano later. No chemistry. Causal as you please, pleasurable to be sure, but just no overriding need. That might have been a clue at the time had she bothered to be anything but jovens bruxas at the chivalrous, old world attentions he had paid to her on their first meeting.

Intrigued. Yes, that is what she had been. He had so many secrets. They never met the same place twice and it was a bit of an adventure, but even that grew tiresome.

“Are you listening to me, Guinevere?”

Gwen turned abruptly on hearing her full name uttered. She licked her lips nervously, momentarily caught off guard por his nearness and his rather intent gaze that tracked the movement of her tongue across her lower lip.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked gently.

“You’ve never actually called me that before, Pendragon. I mean Arthur?” Better to be on the defensive and have the upper hand with this self-important git who prided himself on always being in control and devoid of emotions.

He ducked his head and looked away, clearly confused por her sudden candour.

She had scored, but took no real pleasure in it. The sudden intent fascination he had with picking imaginary lint off his tux’s calças, calça, para calças leg amused though. Seriously, did he even register this nervous tick he had of straightening and or preening when nervous? Not that he ever did nervous of course.

Gwen stifled a snort. Her pergunta caught him off guard, alright. So boy-like at the oddest times, almost adorably sweet and human.

“I’m fine, Arthur.” She said gently, adjusting her xaile for something to do.

He quirked his head at the tone, the rigid set of his jaw relaxing while noting the fleeting expression of sadness in no way masked por the perfectly practiced smile on temptingly succulent lips.

Feminine but quietly so without trying and kind at the oddest moments, she had caught him out and let it go.

“Sorry, just wool gathering. You were saying?”

She wasn’t being fair. How in God’s name would he know where her mind had wandered over the last few minutes?

“Earth to Arthur, I’m up here.”

He cleared his throat again as his eyes rose lazily from a well turned ankle. The damn colarinho, colar was too tight. Why were these damn places so badly ventilated?

“Finding it a bit close in here are we, Pendragon?”

Again with the sultry cadence a hairsbreadth from his ear, she was playing with fire. Her emotional register was quixotic to say the least. From frightened gamo, fawn to in charge little Madame in under a second, this would serve her well one day, he was saddened por this.

Still. He was in charge.

“Amusing, DeGrace,” Arthur retorted feigning composure he wasn’t exactly feeling while fingering the loose silken material of her shawl. He saw her shiver involuntarily and smirked at the gooseflesh that rose beneath the pads of his fingers in the casual caress of limb.

“Rather sensitive too, I see.”

Okay maybe she had overplayed her hand a bit. The needless slow perusal of her cleavage was a bit much right now. What was with the ventilation in this place anyway?

“I find it chilly, is all. Can we focus here? Who is the target?” Gwen responded, mais than thankful they were now in ambient light coming from the orchestra pit. No need for him to be privy to hot cheeks due to the rapid beating of her traitorous heart.

“First row far left. Look familiar?”

Gwen froze fully well recognizing the onyx head and the handsome perfil which chose in that moment to turn their way.

It was but a momentary diversion to be sure as training kicked in.

To the casual observer, two apaixonados were beijar in the ambient darkness of the theatre; nothing more, nothing less.

Lancelot smiled and turned forward, intent on the curtains rising for Act One.

Surprisingly soft and very malleable, it was all she registered at first holding the base of his skull fast, afraid he would flinch at the turn of events, but she should have known better what with his profession.

Vaguely, in some distant corner of her brain, she registered this was not perhaps a good idea, but then, the glide of that palm on the outside of her thigh was sending rather nice eddies up and down her spine at the moment.

His lashes were ridiculously long and ticklish. It was the tongue however, demanding entrance in short order as their lips glided pleasingly and the tentative suckle of her lower lip forcing her mouth open that caused her to realize hands were clapping like a distant thunderous echo around them while the kiss deepened, neither coming up for air. What an odd thing to register as she gripped his lapels and went in for the kill.

kiss now. Think later, her traitorous brain advised. Right now it was about the battle of tongues and she intended to be victorious; that clearly expert tongue of his needed vanquishing and she was the woman to do it.

Two rows behind, their backup grinned impishly quite content with his current vantage, two shows for the price of one Gwaine thought with open expectant palm.

Merlin, forever broke, slapped the ten pound note in it grudgingly.


Kbrand - Relay 5


Decadent. That was the word.

She was decadent; savory and rich like a delicious morsel of medium-rare steak, yet sweet and smooth like an exquisite chocolate truffle melting on his tongue. Her taut thigh muscles jumped under his touch, the curve of her hip pliant and warm under his hand, which squeezed reflexively as he allowed her to plunder his mouth.

Arthur’s mind was getting foggy, his body not listening to his brain that was screaming at him to pull away, pull away now. He continued to dive hungrily in, paying absolutely no heed to the disapproving stares they had begun to draw.

Gwen’s hand snaked up his chest to rest lightly on his cheek just as the Overture reached its high point. The touch made his stomach drop, like he had just careened down the slope of a roller coaster.

A sharp vibration in his calças, calça, para calças pocket brought him back to earth, and he gently pulled back.

Grey-blue eyes met honey-brown ones in a silent standoff of wills.

He looked dazed, foggy… distracted. Guinevere was shocked that the impulsive decision made in a moment of panic would have had that effect on him. Who is she kidding? On her as well.

Arthur recovered first, blinking once, then raising an eyebrow, noting her parted lips and rapid breathing. Gwen cleared her throat and straightened out in her seat, folding her hands primly on her knees. She was not intending to give any explanations.

He reached into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. One text message, two words: Cabbage Head.

Arthur Pendragon is probably the most dangerous and deadly man in Europe. Only one person can send him a message calling him a name and be allowed to live. Merlin.

The Overture is reaching its completion, and he hastily sends two words back: Get bent.

The curtain rises, and they sit stiffly beside one another, suddenly awkward. Gwen pulls her xaile tighter around herself, her conflicted brain reeling. Why Lancelot? What did he do that has necessitated his elimination? She sneaks a peek over at him again. He hasn’t changed a bit. Still tall, dark and handsome, a cliché walking around in tailored trousers. And why did she kiss Arthur? Surely the glasses and wig would render her unrecognizable from this distance, even to someone that had intimate knowledge of her. Panic. Attraction? Attraction. It was pointless denying it. The man was a walking seduction, which was part of the secret to his success. Women and men both seem drawn to him, hypnotized por his almost unrealistic good looks and undeniable charisma. And many have died as a result of it, like insects drawn to a pitcher plant, drawn in por the exterior beauty and the promise of sweet nectar within. At the moment she felt like an insect.

“Why him?” she leans over and whispers, attempting to regain her composure por shifting focus back to the task at hand.

Arthur is sitting bolt upright in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, at least until his body forgets hers. She'd surpassed all the thoughts he’s pushed away, all the dreams from which he's woken up sweaty and frustrated; all the imagens that his disobedient brain had conjured during the moments when he has accidentally let his guard down. He doesn’t hear the singing; it barely registers. His lips can still feel hers pressed against them, his tongue can still taste her.

He wanted to do it again. And again, and again until they were both drunk with desire and the need for each other.

But he couldn’t. No discomfort, no pain, no pleasure.

No pleasure.

“Arthur,” he feels a slender finger poke him in the shoulder.

“Hmm?” he angles his head down, face forward, listening.

“I asked, ‘Why him?’ Why is he the target?”

“That’s need-to-know, DeGrace.”

Bugger him. Bugger him and his rules.

“I think I need to know, Pendragon.”

He turns his head towards her, whispering harshly, “Why, are you afraid you won’t be able to carry out your part of the assignment?” He snaps his mouth closed, angry with the jealousy he feels rising within.

He is so close. Too close. Gwen takes a breath and closes her eyes, steeling herself, regaining control. “Of course not, you twat. I just think I deserve to know, since I’ll be helping to off him.”

She smells so good. Arthur’s hand comes up to smooth the false mustache; actually he's making sure that his disguise is still secure after being disrupted. “Very well. He’s a spy.”

“A what?”

“Shhh!!” angry shushes rise around them.

“A what?” she whispers.

“For fuck’s sake, DeGrace, he’s a spy. He’s been working for the North Koreans for years.”

Gwen opens her mouth, staring at him. She closes it again, and turns back in her seat, facing the stage once again. “How many years?” she leans over and asks through her teeth.

“Enough. Why do you think he could never meet you in the same place twice?”

“You knew?”

“Of course I did. Now shut up and pretend you’re watching the bloody performance.”

- - - -

King Marke arrives on the ship just after Tristan and Isolde learn they’ve taken a amor potion instead of poison, and the curtain falls, signaling the first intermission.

Arthur turns and looks at her just before the house lights come up.

“Are you ready?”

EpicArwen - Relay 6

Gwaine pocketed the ten pounds with a smirk. Easiest money he'd made in a while. Though to be fair, Merlin didn't lose because he bet against a kiss. He lost because he thought it would take longer to happen.

Gwaine had seen too much to do anything but bet his entire fortune on tonight being the night. Since his entire fortune was rather paltry, his win had nearly doubled its size.

Merlin -- or rather Warlock, as was his code name -- nudged Gwaine in the side then angled his head to the aisle where their target was making his way toward the lobby for intermission. Gawaine "Granny" Smith waited the appropriate amount of time before rising from his assento and leading the way to the opposite aisle. They were practically the last ones to leave the near empty auditorium.

Which is why they never saw the attack coming.

Until it was too late.

````

Control.

The one thing he always had.

The one thing eluding him now.

And there she stood in front of him. Cool, calm, collected. Casually reapplying the berry color he'd practically sucked off her full, delicious lips. As if the most earth-shattering kiss he'd ever known hadn't even given her the slightest tremor. As if it had only been a cover. Just part of the job. Which, granted, it had. But still...

What if it weren't?

The chemistry between them had been undeniable. The passion, palpable. He was unnerved por it. So much so that it still twisted his gut into nervous knots and made his lips tingle at just the thought of beijar her again...

"So? What's the verdict?" Gwen queried, pulling Arthur's thoughts abruptly into the present. She then catapulted him right back to that moment her lips first touched his when a slow, seductive smile curled around a provocative question. "Am I distraction enough for you?"

"You'll do." Arthur's tone was harsher than need be. And he knew it. His eyes darted furtively from her face. "In a pinch."

"Well. That's mais than I can say for you." Seemingly unaffected, Gwen's zinger hit its mark as she reached up, the soft pad of her thumb grazing his lips intending to wipe away the telltale signs of their earlier kiss. That simple touch was like a scorching fire.

Arthur's hand reflexively snapped up and grabbed her wrist. Their gazes held. Their breathing stopped.

And for a moment, one sparkling moment, nothing else existed. Nothing but the two of them and the desire tightly wrapping them in its grip.

Gwen was the first to break the silence.

"While I personally don't mind the caveman tactics, I'm not quite sure these civilized society types would take kindly to an innocent woman being accosted so." Her gaze shifted first to the intermission crowd then to the hand with a tight grip on her wrist, reminding him in her not-so-subtle way that he -- and he alone -- could bring undue attention to them in a room full of strangers.

Since when had the student become the master?

He dropped her hand as if he'd been stung.

Gwen smirked.

Arthur flushed.

Control.

She had it. And she knew it.

Well, it was time for that to change. And there were only two ways to do that: focus on the task at hand or kiss the living daylights out of her until she was as shaken as he clearly was. Since the later would certainly bring them both mais trouble than either could handle and the former was, in point of fact, the reason a kiss had happened in the first place, Arthur focused. On anything and anyone but Guinevere deGrace. People milling around them suddenly became the most fascinating subjects. As did the job. The plan.

As if leitura his thoughts...

"So, what's the plan?"

"The third time the lights flash signaling the end of intermission, they'll go out for a full 45 seconds."

"And then?"

"Granny and Warlock grab him and get him out of here. I’ll cadastrar-se up with them later. Until then..."

"I distract and make sure he stays put." Gwen quickly surmised.

Arthur’s scrutinizing gaze swept back to her. "Think you can handle that?"

"Of course. Pushing Lance's buttons has never been an issue." The smugness in her voice prompted an undue warning.

"Yes, well, just make sure he doesn't push your buttons."

A dark eyebrow rose sharply. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You know perfectly well what that means. But just so we're clear..." Arthur leaned in, his voice lowering to a decidedly charged whisper. "...don't let pretty boy sweet talk you into some last minuto attack of conscience or stir up any old feelings. Got it? This man is dangerous. To the country. To the kingdom. To the people. Don't forget that. Not even for a second. You can gaze down memory lane all you like as long as you stay in control. Lose that, even for a segundo and...it can get very lethal. Very fast."

She studied him a long moment. She got a very strong sense that he was talking about her rather than to her. How did she factor into the control he was clearly terrified to lose? And was that...jealousy...she noted in his tone? Certainly not. And yet...

There was no denying the uncontrolled passion of his kiss. The way he thrilled to the brush of her body against his. How dazed he’d looked when his cobalt blue eyes finally opened to stare into hers.

No, she was not mistaken. That kiss had meant something to him too. And now? Oh, he was definitely jealous. He was also desperately afraid.

"For king and country it is then." Gaze softening, Gwen quipped trying to keep her voice light. Fearing instead that the tremor in her words would give her away.

Taken back por her response, Arthur blinked. "King? We happen to have a queen at the moment. Have had for quite a while now."

"Yes, but I wasn't talking about her…your highness." The subtle double meaning and the intensity of her stare offered mais promise than Gwen intended or Arthur was willing to accept. For now. He was spared a retort when Gwen's attention was instantly arrested por something -- or someone -- just beyond Arthur's shoulder. "Ah. There he is. So? Any last words of instruction?"

"Stay where I can see you. Don't go into a room alone with him. And...wear this." Arthur shoved something small in her hand. "I want to hear everything that's being said."

"O...k..." She slipped the two-way ear piece in her ear. "But we were pretty hot for each other." Gwen's lips tilted in an unexpected challenge. "Think you can handle that?”

````

Classic.

The way she floated elegantly through the room.

The casual bump and spill to gain the target's attention.

And boy, once she gained it, did she ever command it.

"Gwennie?"

"Gwennie? What sort of lame-assed nickname is that?" Arthur scoffed, sure Gwen could hear every word in her perfect little ear. He was proven right por the way her brows furrowed in irritation. It was only a dividido, dividir second, but it was enough to know he could get to her too. Even half a room away.

"Lance?"

"What are you..." They spoke at the same time then laughed like it had never happened before. To anyone. Ever.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Classic.

"You first." Lancelot offered as he smiled down at Gwen, his dark eyes openly taking in every enticing curve. And then lingering on every exposed inch of her. Arthur's eyes narrowed and his hands instinctively balled into fists.

"I thought it'd be nice to take in the opera." She was trying to sound casual in that vulnerable sort of way. Perfect for piquing a guy's interest.

"But you hate the opera. Especially a tragedy."

Arthur’s running commentary continued sarcastically. “Yeah. Because you’re a full comedy and a half all on your own.”

The charming tilt of her head gave her the perfect vantage point to shoot Arthur a quiver full of arrows before turning her attention back to her prey. "Yes, well, I've been a bit nostalgic of late. When I saw that Tristan and Isolde was playing, I couldn't resist the urge to..." She gazed up at Lancelot flirtatiously through long lashes. "...revisit the past. If only for a moment."

That prompted a full-fledged Lancelot smile. Arthur hrumphed his displeasure.

"Our first date, wasn't it?" Lancelot took a sip of his remaining drink, his eyes drinking her in. As his brazen gaze settled on her dress’ daring neckline, there was no doubting the direction of his thoughts.

"Yes, I believe it was.”

"An opera for the first date? Seriously? How the hell did he ever keep your interest?"

As if in answer, Gwen defiantly moved closer to Lancelot, her hand falling on his upper arm and sliding its way down. The well-defined muscles were evident even from Arthur's distant vantage point. "I never dreamed you'd be here tonight. Hoped perhaps, but never really thought…” Her lower lip slipped between her teeth as a bashful flush rushed to her cheeks. “I guess that’s what they call…"

"Destiny?"

She flashed him an endearing smile, her voice breathless and wistful. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Oh, God. I think I’m going to be sick." Arthur intoned his disgust.

"It's...irritatingly loud in here, don't you think?" She shot back to no one else but Arthur. "Why don't we go somewhere private? So we can...get reacquainted..."

The lights flashed once.

"Not part of the plan, deGrace." A suddenly alert Arthur felt the first trendils of something akin to fear crawl across his skin. He glanced around for back up. No Merlin. No Gwaine. Where the hell were they? "I mean it, Gwen. Stay put."

The lights flashed twice.

"Private? Now, I definitely like the sound of that." Lancelot offered Gwen his arm and turned his back to Arthur. "Lead the way..."

"Guinevere...don't you dare..."

Gwen slipped one delicate hand through his arm as the other brushed a piece of hair behind her ear. To anyone else, it was a casual mover that meant nothing.

To Arthur, it meant everything.

Arthur watched helpless as Guinevere deGrace disobeyed his orders, dropped her ear piece into the nearest garbage bin and – just as the lights flashed for the third time – disappeared out of sight.


Tossing it to...Stacey? Is it your turn?

Relay 7 - EPaws


Always one for aesthetics, Helios stood back and admired his work, so few understood the fine art of torture or it prequel. Idly, he licked his lower lip in anticipation, cool malevolence in his gaze while taking in the revealing curves of the female bound to the chair; what a magnificent tableau.

He really should have brought a camera then again Lancelot and his ever present rules. Unfair to be denied these small vanities, no sense of ritual that’s what his problem was.

One had to take one’s pleasure where it could be found in a job well done.

The well built male sighed dramatically, enough of romantic musings, he thought shaking his head while bending progressivo, para a frente once mais to eye her binding mais clinically, passing a single digit over the well-toned arms currently above her head.

She flinched though unconscious, dark curls lulling in the process.

He smiled at the involuntary movement of muscles beneath silken skin. Not as quiescent as before, this boded well. The relaxant was wearing off, probably due to the adrenalin still edge.

“Excellent.”

Guinevere had been quite a surprising little fighter before the anaesthetic finally kicked in, admirable even his fingers instinctively moving to his lower jaw, reminded of the sting of those painted talons of hers raking his jaw in her final attempt to be freed.

It still stung.


“Bitch” he murmured against her ear, adjusting the bindings just a smidge tighter, jarring the small body in the process. He enjoyed the rising blue tint upon her palms, the slightly swollen fingers, “thought you had me there for a moment, didn’t you?”

Pain, discomfiture the very best tools for extracting information. The skin of her wrists would be raw before nights end. Something for her to remember him by, if, that is, she survived interrogation.

Just one irksome detail that could possibly spoil his fun – the extraction team, no doubt on its way - as a rule the company left no man, or in this case woman, without at least one attempt at rescue.

This was what Lancelot was counting on.

Helios glanced upward to the dimly lit make shift office atop the stairwell, noting Lancelot’s back and the way he fidgeted with his mobile, sporadically eyeing his own watch.

Shit was clearly about to hit the fan. Where were the boys? They should have been back por now. A shadow above caught his peripheral vision, just clouds imaging across the skylight above amidst the ever present rainfall.

Lancelot had a tendency to be squeamish on these occasions, preferring distance for his kills. What was the point of that, really? Infinitely better to taste the fear, feed on it even. The tall stranger chuckled as he picked up her bluntly bobbed wig and threw it across the damp abandoned warehouse floor in disgust.

“You didn’t need that, little one. Kills the look and the shoes were all wrong too,” he added to no one in particular, his rich baritone echoing in the stillness.

Folding powerful arms across his broad chest, Helios allowed himself to admire the rise and fall of those delectable mounds, warm, dusky, inviting, really a splendid little specimen to work on. He continued to appraise his work slowly moved downward releasing an involuntary groan from deep within like a dark caress.

The legs were spectacular for one so petite, giving the illusion of length. True, the stockings had to go. Her fault for struggling uselessly, such a shame and he did have to well, add to the existing fashion statement of the dress with another slit, but all in all, most appealing.

If time permitted, she would be made to thank him properly with those lush scarlet red lips for allowing her a modicum of modesty with the length of black silk left enticingly so between decidedly firm thighs; a striking contrast if he thought so himself between midnight silk and bronze flesh.

Less was always mais he nodded with approval.

“Helios, you are one sick fuck. Did you know that?” Lance’s lazily soft speech echoed from above. “I’ve been watching you play with your new toy, but even I have my moments and I think she is fine now. Step away and take your position.”

The tall man snickered, giving Lancelot the finger. “I figure ten, possibly fifteen minutos before she is fully conscious. You gave her enough suco, suco de to take down an elephant.”

Lance shrugged, refusing to look at the immobile body. “Shit happens. She was resisting. We need her to lure him in.”

Helios nodded indifferently, studying his nails. “Right. We might not have as much time as you think.”

“What?!” Lance barked, narrowing his eyes.

“You don’t notice the silence? It’s all wrong.”

“It’s an abandoned warehouse, Helios. Hardly party central.”


“Where’s Jeff, then? Peter even? Surely he could have done the perimeter in half the time? Where are they?”

Lancelot’s dark eyes became instantly opaque. He had had the same thoughts. “I’ve checked the readouts. No one is outside. We’ll know within three hundred metres, mais than enough time to set the explosive timers. You worry for nothing, Helios.”
~~~

Plink.

Water.

Plink.

That was the sound of water hitting hard cement; what an odd thing to think of? Her mouth felt dry.

Plink.

Loud garbled speech; a flurry of movement just beyond clear sight; shadows and cold, such cold, numbness, she shivered.

Why could she not move? Her arms felt strained and her fingers prickly, devoid of feeling. Must have fallen asleep, but why so cold? She closed her eyes once mais willing the shadows to vanish as she summoned her strength, her body leaden.

Think, Gwen. Think. Concert; Target...

She groaned in frustration, her eyes popping open at the unexpected echo of her own voice.

Lancelot.

Her mind began to clear as adrenalin coursed through her veins causing her to shiver both in fear but mostly anger.

Yes, she now remembered the vice-like grip on her upper arm escorted her out of the theatre, well past the recognizable prone bodies tossed like so much garbage in the alley, the unspoken threat evident in the tall male hovering over them with a silencer.

Shit! I’m a hostage.

She didn’t need to remember the whispered threat against her ear as she was forced into the unmarked black sedan.

“Be a good girl and your friends will be released in due time.”

She remembered the amargo, amarga scent as a cloth was placed over her mouth and the lurch of the vehicle into the darkness of night. Her last conscious thought, Arthur, their actual target and the feel of flesh under her nails.

Tossing it to KBrand ;)

Relay 8 – kbrand5333

Arthur peers through the grimy skylight just in time to see a dark silhouette rip something from Guinevere’s head and throw it aside.


That’ll be the wig, then. Luckily Arthur hadn’t arrived to see Helios carrying Gwen’s limp body over his shoulder, idly running his palm over her rear end. Luckily he didn’t see him tear her expensive dress from her body, ruining it. Luckily he didn’t see the look of unbridled lust on both Helios’ and Lancelot’s faces as they surveyed their quarry in her scant black panties and strapless demi-bra. Luckily he didn’t see Helios bind her wrists and affix them to a hook suspended from the ceiling, bind her ankles to the chair she is currently slumped in.


Luckily for them, obviously.


As he surveys the scene, Arthur Pendragon feels his blood boiling in his veins, yet his mind contains the coldest, blindest fury. He knows what kind of a sick, twisted bastard Helios is. He knows that he gets off on torture of any kind. Male or female, young or old, it doesn’t matter. But young and female? Young and female and attractive? Those are his extra-special favorites.


Beneath the fury is anger. At Guinevere. Damn her, if she had followed the plan, we wouldn’t be in this mess. We would be back at headquarters right now, reporting to The Dragon. I wouldn’t be on this roof, trying to see through this dirty skylight. Merlin and Gwaine wouldn’t be God-knows-where. Where are they, anyway? And she wouldn’t be restrained in a chair with Helios prowling around her, eyeing her like she’s his seguinte meal, while I sit up here trying to decide what the seguinte mover and…


…worry. About her.


That’s a new emotion for Arthur Pendragon: worry. He was raised to be a cold killer. From the time his fingers were long enough to squeeze a trigger, his arms strong enough to steadily lift a gun.


The Dragon would have my head if he knew I had succumbed to worry, Arthur vaguely thinks, knowing that D would have no qualms at all about eliminating him if he so much as sensed a molecule of weakness. Son or no.


Where is Lancelot, anyway? Arthur creeps along to another skylight. Oh. Cowering in an office. No stomach at all, that one. He can hear Lance’s muffled voice as he talks into his mobile. He can’t make out the words, but the cadence suggests agitation. Questions.


Arthur smiles. Lancelot is wondering where his men are. They’re in a culvert about 100 yards away. In a pile. He flips open his mobile and sends a text. When I was younger, so much younger than today are the words he sends. Then he starts to move.

xXx


Gwen blinks her eyes open and looks down. Oh. That’s why I’m so cold.


“Good morning, my pretty pet,” a gruff voice growls, seeing she’s awake.


“Helios,” she croaks.


“My reputation precedes me, I see.” He lips curl into a sinister smile. Gwen cannot help but laugh.


“What’s so fucking funny?” he snarls.


“That smile of yours. You look like the Grinch who roubou Christmas.”


“The what?”


She rolls her eyes. “Never mind.”


He wheels on her, striding quickly up to her. “You are in no position to be cracking wise, my pet,” he hisses in her ear. She turns her face towards him, gathers up what little moisture she can summon inside her mouth, and spits in his face.


Now Helios laughs. He wipes the spittle from his face and then licks it from his finger, closing his eyes lecherously.


“Up,” he commands, reaching for a box attached to a thick cable. There are two buttons on it. He presses one, and Gwen feels herself being lifted por her already-stiff-and-approaching-numb arms, forcing her to her feet.


He lifts her high enough that she is just barely on her tiptoes, the chair strapped to her ankles balancing behind her, useless.


“Let’s see if you have any fight left in you once I’m through,” he snarls. He reaches for a thin piece of metal, extending it like an old radio antenna. He swishes it in the air menacingly.


That’s going to sting a bit, Gwen idly thinks.


“Now, Pet,” Helios approaches, sliding the metal antenna along his palm. “Information.”


“I’ll bet if you look, you’ll find a telephone directory in that desk,” she nods in the direction of a dusty old escrivaninha, mesa in the corner, “though I cannot vouch for how up-to-date it may be.”


“Oh, I shall so enjoy silencing that smart mouth of yours,” he growls.


She sighs and rolls her eyes at him, as if she is being merely inconvenienced.


“Enough foreplay, Helios,” Lance’s voice drifts down. “Find out what the hell she knows and have done already.”


“Ah, there he is, the little chicken shit girl,” Gwen grins, trying to turn her head, following the direction of the voice. “Don’t have the stomach to do it yourself, you big girl?” she shouts. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Couldn’t even make it through Kill Bill without wincing, I recall. How are you even in this business, anyway, Nancy?”


There is a swish and a sharp sting as the antenna connects with Gwen’s stomach. She doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even flinch. “I think there’s a broken window in here. I feel a draft,” she says, coolly.


Helios cocks an eyebrow, impressed not only por her balls, but her fortitude. And her taut stomach muscles as they contract, the only sign she’s noticed the lash at all.


“Well, well, Pet, it seems you are indeed made of stronger stuff.” Helios tosses the antenna aside, going to a menacing black leather doctor’s bag for a different toy.


While he digs, motion catches the corner of Gwen’s periphery. Arthur drops soundlessly to his feet, eyes on her. She nods slightly, and points her eyes up to the overlooking office.


Arthur winks at her.


“Ah, here we are, just the thing,” Helios declares, withdrawing a black policeman’s truncheon from the bag. He holds it up triumphantly, stroking it lovingly, and turns.


“Thank you.” The closeness of Arthur’s clipped voice startles him as the truncheon is snatched from his hands. The last thing Helios sees is Arthur’s smirk as he clubes him with his own weapon. Then blackness.


“Lancelot…” Gwen says as Arthur reaches for the remote to lower her down.


“He’s being dealt with,” Arthur says as she sits back down in the chair, her arms lowered as far as the winch allows, which isn’t very far. He digs into Helios’ toy bag, looking for something with an edge. “Leon and Percival are holding him. They’re upstairs.”


“Honestly? Nothing sharp?” he huffs, looking around the room.


“Pendragon…” Gwen says, trying to will some of the feeling back into her arms, but as they are still suspended over her head, it’s not working too well.


“Zip ties… why the fuck did he have to use zip ties…” Arthur fishes through the desk.


“Arthur!” Gwen shouts.


“What?”


“I have a blade.”


Arthur looks at Gwen, incredulous. “You do?” Good God, where on earth does she possibly have a blade?


“Yes.”


“Where?” he asks, warily, trying not to look at her body. The thin rosa, -de-rosa stripe across her stomach from where the antenna struck her is not lost on him, however, and he decides to give Helios a kick as he walks past him.


“It’s… in my bra.”


Oh. Oh, dear.


“How on earth do you have a weapon in your bra?” he asks.


“Hey, these things can be considered weapons if used correctly,” she says, thrusting her chest forward.


Oh, God, don’t do that.


“But I have a thin titanium faca in a Kevlar sheath in here as well. Gaius made it for me.”


“I suppose it’s too much to hope that it’s in the back?”


“It’s designed to be masked por the underwire, Pendragon.”


“Ah. So it’s…”


“Yeah,” she says, “sorry.”


“What? Oh, um, right.” He stands in front of her now. “Which one?”


“Left,” she says. Arthur raises his hand hesitantly, hovering just over her right breast. “My left, Arthur, not yours,” she whispers hoarsely.


“Right.” His voice is equally nonexistent. “Um,” he tries to decide how to angle his hand to allow him the fastest, easiest access to the faca tucked inside while touching as little of that amazing orb as possible.


Damn it, man, it was just a kiss. Meant to be a diversion.


“Look, I’m sorry this is so unpleasant for you,” she snaps, “but could you get on with it? I can’t feel my arms.”


“Sorry,” he croaks. “I’m just trying to figure out the best way to get…” Taking the bra off is not an option, he decides firmly. Then inspiration hits. He moves around behind her, and slowly reaches down, sliding his hand inside, skimming against her surprisingly warm skin.


“Guinevere, you’re holding your breath,” he says quietly, his breath warm on her ear. “Exhale, please. It will give me some mais room to move.”


She does as she is told, and Arthur notices her eyes are closed and her body is as still as a graveyard. Does my touch affect her the way hers does me?


He pushes his hand further in, gently, grasping with his fingertips, telling himself to ignore how soft her skin is, how supple, how firm…


He feels the end of something hard. There it is. He moves his long fingers to close around the end and pulls his hand carefully out, the stiletto grasped precariously between his index and middle fingertips.


Holy shit, I’m really glad I’m behind her now, Arthur realizes as he straightens up and part of him bumps the back of the chair she is sitting in. Disobedient thing, he curses inwardly.


He pauses, unsheathing the tiny blade. It is shaped somewhat like a metal nail file, no wider than a centimeter, if that. He tests the edge and finds it wickedly sharp. It is light and flexible, but strong.


Finally he allows himself to walk around in front of her, fairly confident that the mais interested parts of him have calmed down. He reaches up and cuts the tie holding her wrists to the hook, and her arms fall down on his head like the two pieces of meat that they currently feel like to Gwen.


“Sorry,” she says as he tucks his head down, worming it in between her arms, and momentarily she has her hands around his neck. Like a lover’s embrace.


“Wrong direction,” he mutters, ducking again and reaching up with his free hand now to pull her arms down. He slits the zip tie holding her wrists together and her arms flop uselessly onto her lap.


Arthur crouches down again and rubs her shoulders, down her arms, trying to get the blood circulating again. Her fingers have a bluish-grey tinge to them, and he holds her hands between his, rubbing briskly.


“My ankles, please,” she whispers. Something in her tone makes him look up at her face. She is flushed, her skin unnaturally warm in the chill of this warehouse. Her eyes are inky dark, her lips parted.


All the signs are right there. Arthur swallows. Hard.


“Ow,” she winces, flexing her fingers and arms now. “Pins and needles are a bitch,” she complains while Arthur frees her ankles, rubbing the red marks on each gently as he does.


He is kneeling in front of her, his face nearly level with hers. They stare a minuto in the thick, cold air, but neither feel the chill. Arthur moves closer, nudging her knees apart with his body.


“Hell with it,” he says, and claims her waiting lips once again, his hand quick as lightning as it holds the back of her neck. She stiffens for just the briefest moment, then melts, and he feels her arms come back up around his neck, her fingers tangling into his hair. His other hand caresses the bare skin at her waist, snaking around her back, and she whimpers in the back of her throat as he pulls her closer.


Not a whimper. A purr.


“God,” he pulls away just momentarily to curse, then his lips are back on hers, open and hungry, his tongue probing, sliding against hers in the most delicious fashion as she returns the kiss just as ardently, just as passionately.


“Well, isn’t this romantic?” Helios’ sarcasm filters through and Arthur slowly removes his lips from hers but remains very close.


“May I?” Gwen asks softly, smiling at Arthur.


“As you wish, my lady.”


Gwen sees Helios approaching slowly, and just before he reaches Arthur, truncheon raised, she jumps up, quick as a flash, and smashes the wooden chair over Helios’ head as Arthur dives out of her way, working in complete synchronicity with her.


~~~