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He’s not sound asleep - but he was somewhat dozing when Tobias walks in. His spy training is far too strong to not kick in so the slight sound stirs the head of the Round Table as he rubs his brow and faces his son. He does offer a smile, a tired, weary one as if the past weeks have taken away years from his life and they might as well have. Lionel isn’t so sure how much he’s got left by all that matters. “We could go out.” He drawls, trying to make  it sound as if no, he wasn’t almost asleep. 

“I could always use some air.”

Your Door Was Open | Pellinore & Arthur

Toby opened the door, there was no resistances on the the knob and he smiled a little. “You know, for the head of a spy organization you’d think you’d be a little more careful about your private office.” He said, stopping when he was face to face with his father. This was always harder that it seemed it would be. 

“I just wanted to check in. You know, see how things were. And maybe offer to bring you some lunch.” 

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[Moodboard] - Lionel is so done.

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Congratulations recruits,

For your performance in Task 2.

But know that from now on  it’s not getting any easier and I hope you are all taking your training very seriously. 

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[PM] Lucan & Ector

I will have the two of you in my office now, no further talks on the dashboard. 

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Do you feel bad about keeping your illness a secret from your loved ones? Do you feel lonely without them helping you?

[Deleted]

Short answer? Yes.

Long answer? This question can either have come from three people extremely close to me that won’t ask me such a thing openly and I can’t respond to this openly without disclosing my situation. But the position I’m in, I’m the stronghold of this organization  right now, I may not be the main piece since we function as clockwork but I am a figurative piece. They need me as a pillar stone, to stand still, to be strong and steady and not fail them. I mustn’t tell them because that’ll mean I’m not bulletproof,  that’ll mean I’m just as weak and frail. Yes.  I’m terribly lonely. I feel awful and I’m just human, people tend to forget that sometimes. I’ve made decisions and I’ll take on the consequences of the thing I’ve done. But I feel sad and alone and to know I might die in the lieu of my solitude, it’s a terrible feeling.

[/Deleted]

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I’m getting jealous over here.

fuck, marry, kill: alec, frank, allen.

      “i’ll marry the fuck out o’ frank an’ that’s all yer gettin’ from me.”

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So, boss I've been here a long time and I think it's time we talk about, how would you say, a raise.

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And I had such high hopes you’d endure at least a week, Abraham dear. Permission granted but don’t be too harsh or it won’t be as nearly as effective as you think.

PM | Abraham & Lionel

Your agents are a bunch of elementary school kids and that’s not nearly as endearing as they think it is. Permission to discipline them?

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How many agents have you outlived?

[Deleted]

 Too many. [/Deleted]

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Mayday - Part V

It was all his fault.

He thought, as he laid in the hospital  bed, angrily staring at the unsteady heart monitor. It was all his fault. Lancelot’s death, Galahad was now in danger - he knew because he was aware of Merlin taking off suddenly, only he was in no position to reply. Not when his body has ran out of oxygen and fluids because of his illness. 

There is an oxygen line hooked to his face and that makes Lionel desperate and angry, he feels thirteen again as he first ran away to the circus in order to find somewhere in the world he’d belonged and yet there was only solitude and hard work. It’s overwhelming and heavy. There is no one he can ask for aid - a plethora of people he’s loved throughout his life, faithful people, people he carries within his heart but he’s protecting each and every one of them from the sad reality of his mortality. There is only Marcus and Merlin but

Marcus mustn’t be there now, he must attend to the HQ where he belongs and look after his agents, especially now that Arthur is not there. And Merlin... Merlin must be angry with his absence. He knows it, the glasses sit in the bedside now, eventually bleeping and going off and he can’t reach. His hands are still too cold and he feels too weak. Too tired. 

So he does not respond and  he prays. While his doctors and nurses all keep him medicated and he sleeps intermitently, sinking into dreamless states and waking up to a motionless, bland ceiling that will not tell him anything, that will not tell him what time is it or how are his agents or if Galahad has survived the mission he’s certainly wronged him to. 

It’s his fault. 

He replies to texts so no one will come looking but at the very least those who know him are used to the idea Lionel goes days in quietness, even Frank respects that sometimes. No one comes looking after him and that is the best he could hope for. 

He is discharged three days later, feeling a lot more rested and probably a couple years older, thankful that his hairs are already shaved and takes off to the Headquarters when he finally gets a hold of Merlin - and at least Galahad is alive. Compromised, wounded, but alive. He should’ve known better. But it’s too late for weeping now and he’ll have words with the agent later, they must know what is happening over that part of the world. 

He is there when the plane lands.

He is there to hold Galahad in his arms along with Merlin, ignoring the pointed looks and is an ungodly hour in the HQ when they slide around the empty, silent hallways and leave him in the medical ward. But it’s when he lands the man softly in the gurney, dismissing Merlin to fetch the doctor that a chill creeps over his spine. Wisely as the years have made him - carefully he strops Galahad’s suit jacket and search his pockets.

A green, four leaved shamrock.

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[Text] Arthur/Morgan

Arthur: Dr. Adessi.

Arthur: There is a new patient I just handed down to your nurses, to be kept in a private room at maximum discretion.

Arthur: I left instructions within the nurses and at your desk.

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As per usual he was going on with his day. It wasn’t a chemoterapy day so he felt alright, mostly, even if there was the constant weariness to his bones that never ceased by now, the dryness in his parched lips and the joints pain. He knew his illness was slowly catching up with his age and he did all within his power to try and pretend all was well and nothing was wrong but that was an obvious and blatant lie to himself. Thankfully, only Doctor Adessi knew and he’d like it to stay that way. With steady hands and a headache that was mostly constant now, he kept working. Filling paperwork, dispatching orders and agents, doing what he was there for.

Until Merlin bustled in his office. The man was as loyal as a guard dog and he couldn’t have asked for a better one - so by his behavior alone Lionel could guess something was wrong. For two whole seconds he dreaded another agent would’ve died but there was no one in high risk missions he could remember right now. Until the man turned and spoke. He sat up straight, eyes cold and hard, lips pressed into a tight expression, feeling angry and far too tired for this... but he’d imagined something of the sorts could happen soon. Merlin was the eyes and ears of the agency and if there was someone who would pry on his files, it would be him. He’d have a talk with Marcus about doctor-patient confidentiality later but for now, he had another problem on his hands, a rather emotional handler. 

“Sit down Merlin.” He says calmly, pointing at the chair in front of his desk and clearing it from paperwork swiftly, setting two glasses, one for him and another for his companion, pouring scotch for the two of them. This was bound to become a long, painful talk.

MerThur - Lying through your teeth.

To say that Merlin was angry would be putting it mildly. He was usually a fairly stoic person, not letting things that were on his mind be visible on his face, but if anyone bumped into him right now, they would know exactly what he was thinking. ‘How DARE that idiot keep THIS from me? Because evidently the Doc could use the help to treat this damned disease, and he would have taken a load off Arthur’s shoulders if he needed a break. But no, the idiot decided to be a bloody martyr about the whole damned thing.’ He was fuming after the talk with Marcus, and had to stomp down on his feelings real hard during the dogtraining. Cubitus had done her best to keep his mind off it, and been the model of obedience. She’d done him proud. But now he had walked her back to his office and let her sleep for a bit to recover from her hard work. Time to give Arthur the bollocking he’d promised Marcus.

He’d seen that Arthur was working in his office, so he knocked briskly and let himself in without Arthur answering. He closed the door and locked it. He sighed with his back to his boss, and turned to let loose what he had bottled up for a few good hours. Deadly quiet he started: “So. When were you planning on telling me that you’re basically unfit for duty?”

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He observes Thomas approaching.  For better or for worse they were very similar to the core, outsiders in the middle of Kingsman and having inherited the title of Tristan. Originally the meaning of the name suited Lionel  in his youth, “to clatter” in the lieu of the noise arms made. But there where other meanings too  and those he accepted later in life. “sad”, “sorrowful”.  It depended on the origin place. They weren’t so different afterall, considering their personal stories and such, Lionel had quite the fondness for Thomas but right now he wanted to be left alone. And yet he knew solitude was probably the least thing he should be taking upon himself, it never did him any good, such a pathetic old man he’d become. With a long draw from his cigarette he takes a moment before answering to the short knight that is now standing in front of him. 

“Good afternon, Tristan.” He says lightly, lips quipping in a pleased smile. “I’m alright yes, how about you? You did very well in your latest assignment, congratulations, despite the terrible shirt.” He reminds lightly, trying to lighten the mood he himself has inflicted upon the atmostphere “Ah yes, most people forget I’m human and actually do need fresh air and sunlight sometimes, living inside an office does no good.” He ponders, blowing the smoke through his nostrils and looking above at the offensively blue sky above them. Sometimes when days are too beautiful he gets offended, how dare the world keep like this when he feels like he’s about to be buried six feet under?

Down for the count. // Arthur & Tristan

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Mallory White was the very living image of a dichotomy - that darkness does not always represents evil and clarity does not always means good. However, as Lionel watched her approach in the distance before her eyes took knowledge of his presence, he knows she’s made of grey matter. She’s unreal, floating in the made up area of platonic existence. The Lady In The Lake.  They’ve been together in Kingsman for years, before he was Arthur, when his title was Tristan and he was the commander’s right hand and yet she’d always been loyal to a fault.  In their core both of them - Lionel and Mallory, were very similar. Sticklers, difficult people with an ability to deceive themselves and put past everything that wasn’t relevant to the moment.

Now he’s Arthur and she’s always been Nimue, she’s the Lady in the Lake. She holds power over his story and his heart just as he does to hers. Frank. Roy. Mallory. Those of them whom remain after so long - the years go by and the world remains the same, despite the scenery changes. What’s changed is them. There are pictures in which smiles reach their still young eyes, hairs have not grey entrances still or receeding hairlines. There are not creases in their foreheads and above all, countless deaths on their shoulders. 

As she speaks to him, he takes a drag from his fag before speaking again, releasing smoke through his nose and offering a tired smile. “Needed a moment.” There is no lie in his words for he sees no reason to do so. He won’t tell her what’s brought the urgency for a moment but right now, his words ring of pain and a weariness beyond measure.

Down for the count. // Arthur & Nimue

Her father worked for the government, which was hardly anything to wax lyrical about, but her mother used for prose. His blood flows with the Earth’s, Maman would say, Mallory on one knee and Annaliese on the other. His skin maps the ground. He breathes out with the rise and fall of the seas’ waves. He is heartless, but in its place sits a fire, a fire that pounds and throbs and brings life to everything outside its walls.

Mallory used to wonder if her mother ever knew about her father’s betrayal to England. When she remembered the words that were whispered to her during her time in the Twelfth Circle, she remembered fire and rebirth. Worlds cannot be fixed, only replaced.

She knows it’s a twisted thought. There’s something inherently wrong with thinking nothing can be repaired, especially considering that her career choice is the field of making the world a better place. But even after decades of conditioning, never doubting her morals once, the organization had planted a seed in her mind.

   Break it, ruin it, tear it down.

Her father had been the patriarch, her king to pledge her sword to - his legacy had needed protecting and she’d gone to sleep with the lions to protect it. The Twelfth Circle stealing intelligence for nefarious purposes had meant nothing to her, not really. They’d extinguished the fire her father had kept safe for all those years, and it started a spark in her. She needed a fire to feed, and she found it in the Kingsmen.

Her King Arthur was much like her father. A mimic to the ground he walked on. He had flames licking at the muscles that held them in, and it gave him immeasurable power. There was an undeniable temptation in regards to power. She would never be a leader, yes, she knew that much about herself, and it didn’t cause her grief. Her lack of ambition for the top didn’t keep her up at night. She was meant to kneel, she was meant to be the dog to the hunter. For hunters to go for the kill was unconventional, even with their guns and their bows and their spears. Their desire to see things killed was married to the dog’s desire to kill, to taste blood on their tongue and flesh between their teeth.

Mallory had kept her head down on her walk, taking time from the hustle and bustle of the headquarters to enjoy a nice silence. Usually she would have gone home, but she had her first class to teach the next day and had spent some time going over the lesson plan. She had looped the garden, and was about to walk back the way she came when a familiar figure caught her eye.

“Lionel darling,” she said with gentle surprise, “Funny to catch you, what are you doing all the way out here?”

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The knocking comes in impeccable time as per usual - one thing Lionel will never cease to admire in the man he’s rescued from the pits of hell, is his british punctuality. Mark functions at clockwork pace, wonderfully and magnificently, the actual Kingsman commander can never get enough of it. “Come in.” He speaks to the door as it creaks open and the Black Knight trots inside. Lionel is a trained spy so no emotion seeps into his face - but he wants to smile with enderament. The suit is hideous, alright, made by the best Kingsman hands in the Saville Row shop but hideous nonetheless. He can never get enough of those God Awful suits, his friend’s trademark. All about the man is unique and it’s truly endearing. 

However, serious matters must be dealt right now so nothing comes through his serious semblance. “Yes.” He motions so the man can take his place across the heavy wooden desk. “Would you accept a drink,  Mister Darcy?” That’s not his name. But as per request and costume, they never use the man’s real name. Before he launches into the usual rant of why they operate in the way they do and why Mark cannot terrify people, manners speak first. 

Stern Reprimand - f2f - Mark & Lionel

The door almost looked imposing. A solid thing of wood with square carved panels that had been polished and waxed to perfection (he knew, having done it himself only a few days before). In most situations, and were he a normal human, mark might feel like a child called into the principals office, or someone waiting for judgment day. Instead, Mark only felt mild annoyance that Marcus, the good doctor, had spilled the beans before Mark could personally deal with his small crisis and thus not inconvenience his friend, who probably had many thing to worry about than a simple Russian spy.

Straightening the (what he considered dapper) red plaid suit one last time, Mark knocked twice with his knuckles and waited for Arthur’s reply before letting himself in. “Arthur,” he greeted. Knowing this was an official meeting rather than a more personal one. Shutting the door he stood before it, looking towards his boss and friend unashamed of his actions but willing to accept the required reprimand. “May I sit?”

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Lionel can’t help but let a smile in return blossom in his lips as well - Marcus Adessi isn’t a subtle man. Or rather, subtlety isn’t his forte and he’s not striving for it, but it doesn’t matter for the simple fact the man is a doctor and not a Kingsman agent per say. He doesn’t need to know techniques to hold his emotions at bay, which are quite the open book written all over his face. So the commander merely smiles, he doesn’t laugh, it’s a rare happenstance and Marcus isn’t there just yet. He’s still wary of the man that reminds him of his too recent loss. 

“Ho avuto il tempo della mia vita.” He replies softly, aware that the good doctor used to live in Italy and decides to practice his italian just a little bit. It’s always for good measure, to keep his languages well oiled. The latian language rolls off his tongue without his scottish lilt - he’s well practiced afterall. “Si potrebbe pensare che potrei essere arrabbiato, ma io non sono un perdente dolente, il mio buon medico.” He punctuates by punching the sandbag once more and watching the man from the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t want to be friends, alright, but he’s too tired to keep his hostility wall right now and Marcus’ smile is far too gentle to be dismissed.

Mealladh. /F2F/  Lionel & Morgan

Marcus stutters to a stop. Oh, are they actually conversing today? Today, of all days, right after Marcus determined that an intelligent conversation was lost when Arthur had his shirt off? Right, okay. Marcus can do this. “Morning, sir.”

Marcus inches closer, not sure how to start the conversation until last night comes back to him. A smile flickers on Marcus’s face. “Didja have fun last night?” Because Marcus and James sure did. So much fun. All the fun.

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Down for the count. // Arthur & Open

Chemoterapy is a bitch.

Lionel Allistair Graham always took proud on being a strong son a bitch - that’s how he’s always referred himself to, scottish, bastard and proud, thank you very much. He's  got the self esteem of Zlatan Ibrahimović, once he’s come to terms with the fact half of his family would never look up to him with anything less than pure hatred.  Still, he’s Kingsman’s leader, he is his family’s leader - he is his friend’s pillar of strength. There is so much on Lionel’s  shoulders and most times, such as Atlas, he doesn’t mind because if holding the world means he’s keeping people safe, sound and happy, then it’s all he needs.

But other times it feels too much - such as right now, when he’s left chemoterapy a handful of hours ago. Marcus Adessi keeps tabs on his treatment, alright but he’s got other an actual specialist for that and the man said for him not to exhert right after.  Does he listen? Well, yes, it’s not like he’s training at this very momet. Only he goes to the HQ, there is so much work still needing to be done. 

His agents sometimes feel like too much. They’re his life, he loves them all  to bits, even if not showing through might be part of his job.  He loves them, their stunts and stints, the way they challenge his every order and defy even the slightest rule (and he’ll bend them to it nonetheless).  Kingsman feels like too much on certain days like this, when his back hurts and his knees hurt, his joints in a general hurt and everything feels too stiff. His lips are chapped, his throat feels sore and there is cold sweat on his forehead, not mattering how many times he presses his handkerchief to clean. You’re sick, Lionel. Is the ugly truth. Some days are worse than others and maybe he should go home, he will, later on. 

Right now he merely avoids his agents and sits by the farthest corner of the garden, cigarette in hand and eyes closed, ignoring the nausea and pain.