"I don't recall doing this for Arthur's approval." Lancelot leans back against the wall, one hand balancing the leather satchel of coins, playing with it to hear them move against each other.

"He will hear of it, you know."

"Yes, I suppose he will." Lancelot sighs and looks up at Dagonet's earnest darkened into shadow by the fall of the light. "However, what Arthur will hear is that his mighty Romans are furious that they keep losing money, but it will not be said that they're losing it to me. To say such things will either imply that I am cheating and they're stupid enough to keep coming back, or that they're being bested by me, which may be worse than sheer stupidity in their minds."

"Or they could lie and say that you stole it and Arthur would have no choice but to put you on the cross for a flogging."

Lancelot's hand closes tightly around the bag and he shrugs. "If they plan to lie, there's little I can do about it now. At least I have the pleasure of their money should it come to that."

"Little good that it will do you for the bleeding welts and jarring pain when you try to ride."

"I cannot control what Arthur thinks." Lancelot gets to his feet, glaring at Dagonet. "Or who he wishes to believe."

"Funny that, for once, the Romans wouldn't be lying, would they? You are cheating them out of their coin."

"I'm not cheating."

"You're not quite playing fair."

Lancelot holds Dagonet's gaze as he gathers the rest of the game pieces, including the scattered broken ones from the last Roman's outburst of disbelief and indignation. "Neither are they."

"I don't need a bodyguard."

Dagonet nods as they make their way back to their garrison, his tall form easily overshadowing Lancelot's. "Of course you don't."

"Then why are you acting like one?"

"Because you're stupid enough to think you don't need one. Which means you'll get yourself killed without even knowing it."

"I'm fairly certain that, should some Roman think he can win his money back with his sword, I can best him easily."

"I'm not worried about some Roman. I'm worried about several Romans who are not only stupid, but very drunk and very angry."

"I'm not afraid of Romans."

"And I rather prefer you not dead, though I'm not completely sure why." Dagonet settles his hand on the back of Lancelot's neck, his fingers curving around it and his thumb stroking the warm skin beneath the thick curls. "Probably because you owe me money."

"I don't owe you any such thing."

"Favors then." He grins down at Lancelot, his fingers tightening slightly. Lancelot looks up at him, his eyes darker than the night sky around them, darker than the shadows that fall into the alley from the surrounding buildings. "For being your bodyguard, for example."

"I didn't ask for a bodyguard."

"I know," Dagonet's grin widens, a hint of wickedness curling the normally sedate features. "That's why you owe me."

The room is silent save for the sleeping murmurs of the few of them still alive. Tristan is gone from his bed, likely hunting the moon or something equally elusive, likely catching it and setting it free. Bors is also gone, as the room isn't echoing with his loud snores and muttered dreams, most likely sharing them with Vanora and their brood of offspring. Galahad and Gawain are in their corner, tumbled together like a lion cubs.

Dagonet hasn't released his hold on Lancelot's neck, his thumb still stroking the warm skin. Lancelot stops as the door closes behind them, the room lit only by the distant fire and the few scattered torches that hang from the walls. He tilts his head, looking at Dagonet with unreadable eyes.

"Here I am then, safe and sound. Did you plan to rout Gawain and Galahad from their bed and see if they're hiding an ambush of Romans?"

"No. I think you're safe for the night."

"My relief is immeasurable," Lancelot smirks though he closes his eyes and lets his head lay back against Dagonet's palm. "My reputation, however, has likely taken a serious blow, now that I have someone minding me on my trek to bed."

"You usually have someone minding you on your trek to bed. It's just usually someone with more breast and curves." His thumb slides into the hollow beneath Lancelot's ear. "And far less capable of saving your hide should the Romans launch an attack."

"Arthur would hear of that too."

"Would do you little good if you were dead."

"You seem to be obsessed with my death."

"Perhaps because you are not, though you seem to seek it out like a man hungry for it."

Lancelot's eyes open and he meets Dagonet's gaze. "Not what I'm hungry for."

"Ah. Breasts and curves, hmmm?"

Lancelot shakes his head, settling his hand on Dagonet's chest. "Not what I'm hungry for either."

"Careful, little one." Dagonet's voice is rough and thick, low and dangerous. "Unlike your Romans, I'm not in the mood to play. Or to lose."

"What makes you think I'm playing?"

"Because, Lancelot." He moves away, leaving Lancelot standing alone beside his cot. "You always are."

"Hey." Dagonet looks up from the strap of leather he's working on to meet Lancelot's dark eyes, but doesn't speak, leaving Lancelot to continue or not. "Are we not speaking now?"

"You are."

Lancelot purses his lips and takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and evenly, though his hand tightens into a fist. "You said I owed you."

"Did I?"

Lancelot growls low, frustration tightening his jaw line. "Is this what it's to be then? I did nothing wrong but I'm being punished because you decided I was likely to do something wrong?"

"History will out."

"History." Lancelot spits out the word as if it's a curse. "History is what the Romans tell us. What they decide has and will happen. You wish to call me by breeding, then do it."

Dagonet sighs and sets his knife down, running the leather through his fingers. "I hear there is a game tonight."

"Do you?"

Dagonet laughs at Lancelot's short tone. "I do."

"Possibly."

"Possibly I will be there. And we'll see if breeding and history are any match for your fury, little one."

"Not so little anymore."

"Lancelot." Dagonet laughs again as he stands, towering over the other man. "You are still little to me."

Lancelot loses money at first, letting it slide through his fingers like water. The Romans never seem to learn, or perhaps they're too embarrassed at their own defeat to pass Lancelot's strategy on to the next fool that stumbles into his game. The tide changes slowly, and eventually the harsh laughter and mocking insults change to low curses and threats.

Dagonet knows that Lancelot allows no weapons in the game, though he also knows that Lancelot wears a dagger in his boot. Lancelot makes a grand show of leaving off his double swords, of being in the room unadorned with the deadly steel. Still, as much as he knows Lancelot can defend himself, Dagonet sits on the ground not far off, close enough to hear the dangerous escalation of voices, close enough to see men fade into shadow and disappear. Or to see them stay, if they feel like taking their money back or, more likely, ending up dead.

"I would not advise it," he rumbles softly to the man swearing softly as he moves toward the alley from Lancelot's room. The man looks at him, his mouth opened to say something more damning than the muttered curses, then snaps it shut as Dagonet stands.

"No weapons, but he brings his own," the Roman laughs roughly. "Arthur will hear of this."

"Will he?" Dagonet settles back against the wall, the stones still warm from the oddly warm day. "And what will you say? That he cheated? Can you prove that?" Dagonet shakes his head. "Go on then, tell Arthur. Perhaps it's for the best."

The Roman stomps off, his curses now bestowed on Dagonet's close-cropped hair as well as Lancelot's dark head. Dagonet does not smile until he sees Lancelot standing in the doorway, backlit by the faint torchlight.

"I do not need a watchdog either."

"I could go."

"You're here. You might as well stay." He glances at the sky then closes his eyes. "We should ride."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. South. Go south until they won't let us go anymore."

"Until they kill us?"

"Suppose that would be the Romans' preferred method of stopping us." Lancelot sighs. "I'm done for the night."

"You should sleep in the stables. They'll not touch you there."

Lancelot laughs, the sound bitter and tired. "No. Not for some time."

Dagonet pushes off the wall and moves over to him, waiting for Lancelot to disappear back into the room and gather his gold, his things. "They'll not touch us there."

Lancelot looks back at him, and his eyes are unreadable again, strange given how much they usually give away. "They never touched you."

"No. Not after the first."

The horses make soft sounds as they enter, keenly aware that they are friend, not foe. Lancelot moves to his horse and buries his nose against the animal's, whispering softly in their native tongue. Dagonet watches him for a moment then moves over to an empty stall, snagging several blankets from their hooks as he goes.

After a few more moments, Lancelot joins him, blankets bunched underneath him as he leans back against the wall. "They call me Arthur's dog."

Dagonet does not correct Lancelot's dubious grasp of Latin to inform him they call him 'Arthur's bitch'. "That's your job. Our job. To be Arthur's teeth."

"They do not call you that."

"They do not call you that to your face unless they want a fight. They fear Arthur's dog."

"An animal." Lancelot shifts and stretches out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. "A beast."

"You expect the Romans to see us as more? They cannot. They do not. We are less than them to them. That does not make us less than them." Dagonet shifts, moving down alongside Lancelot and raising himself on one elbow.

Lancelot laughs. "I took their money again tonight."

"You need to stop. What will you do with the money, eh? All our needs are taken care of save wine and women, and you need little coin to get either of those."

"It's not the money."

"I know. But you will not change how they think, and it is not worth your life." He rests his hand on Lancelot's chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. "Stop."

"And if I can't?"

"I will have to stop you." He leans in, his breath warm and his voice just above a whisper. "And unlike the Romans, I can defeat you."

"Only if I let you."

"True," Dagonet agrees as his mouth moves closer to Lancelot's, his breath now hot on Lancelot's parted lips. It is more than this that holds fear for Lancelot in Dagonet's breast, even though just this would be enough. "But you always let me."