Chapter Text
Galahad already knows it’s a lost cause when he sees Arthur’s face shift from concern into blatant alarm at the sight of his bared wound.
“It’ll heal up in a few days,” Galahad tries defensively, propping himself up on his elbows where he’s laid back on a bedroll on the floor of the abandoned barn they’ve camped in and trying to pretend like the small shift didn’t send his head spinning.
“Down.”
A gentle hand presses Galahad back down onto the bed, and his glare shifts to the figure on his opposite side. “Don’t tell me what to do, Tristan,” he snaps, then winces at the flash of pain that lances through his side.
As infuriatingly calm and mild mannered as ever, Sir Tristan nods once in apology, entirely unfazed. Well, entirely unfazed by Galahad’s retort, anyhow. Despite the presence of his usual composure, from the moment that Galahad took a spear to the gut and fell from his horse, Tristan has developed a decidedly somber air about him that Galahad has rarely seen. It pisses him off.
“Losing one of my best men is a rather ill way to begin the new year,” Arthur remarks with a weary sigh.
“Christ, would you all stop acting like I’m on my death bed?” Galahad scoffs, but even he can hear the defeat in his voice.
“You aren’t on your deathbed, Galahad, but you will do yourself and your fellows no favors by attempting to carry on as usual with such a severe wound,” Arthur chides him gently. “One of us will stay behind with you while you heal. The rest of us will continue on.” Before Galahad can get another word out, Arthur holds his hand up. “My decision is final. You’ll be of no use on the battlefield like this. This mission,” he continues, leaning down to rest a gentle hand on Galahad’s shoulder, “We can handle being down two men. But for future missions, I will need every single one of my men. I will not risk losing you.”
And Galahad sags under the warmth of his steadying hand, his measured and authoritative command. Above his own pride, his sense of duty, his zeal, is his trust in his commander.
“Fine,” Galahad mutters. “Alright.”
Arthur smiles. Tristan is not smiling. His eyes are on Arthur’s hand on Galahad’s shoulder. Worried about his wound, Galahad assumes.
“We’ll discuss as a group tonight and decide who shall stay behind with you,” Arthur says with an air of finality, straightening back up and adjusting his belt.
“I’ll stay with him.”
Galahad’s eyes snap back to Tristan, brows furrowing in surprise. Arthur frowns. “You’re our best archer, Tristan, not to mention our primary navigator.”
“You’re heading due east. The path is straight, and the mission is simple. I have the most experience with field medicine. It should be me.”
Arthur and Galahad exchange a glance before Arthur nods hesitantly. “I do trust you the most with medical care,” he acknowledges. “Do what you can for him now. I will let you know of my decision by nightfall. For now, we need to get you taken care of. Tristan, are you confident that you can treat the wound and stitch him up?”
“Yes. But I could use some help holding him down.”
“I don’t need to be held down–” Galahad begins indignantly, but his senior knights are already brushing him off and going to gather the medical supplies needed.
As it turns out, Galahad did, in fact, need to be held down.
Lying on his back on the bed roll, Galahad’s arms are pinned on both sides by Arthur while Tristan straddles his hips, leaning over the wound on his chest in concentration.
“Just– Just give me a second–” Galahad whines, gut stinging from the first pass of the needle through his flesh.
“Hold his arms fast. And give him more mead,” Tristan says in a flat voice, and Galahad quickly finds a flask held to his lips by a concerned looking Lancelot.
“How on earth is he in more pain from the needle than the spear?” Lancelot asks. Galahad tries to reply, but instead finds his mouth filled with more mead.
Another piercing jolt of pain, and Galahad whines, eyes locking on to where Tristan is bowed over him in concentration. After a hasty swallow, Galahad tries to calm his breathing, strangely overwhelmed by the feeling of Arthur’s hands pinning his arms, Tristan’s weight on top of him, the bite of the needle, the occasional bite of Tristan’s piercing gaze–
“Breathe,” Tristan says in a low, soothing voice, as if he read Galahad’s mind. “Be still.”
Galahad swallows the whimper that was bubbling up in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to tremble under the overstimulating, confusing combination of pain and care. He’s not used to being touched like this. Besides the occasional arm around a shoulder or hearty clasp of hands from his fellow knights, Galahad is not used to being touched much at all, really. His cheeks feel hot, near feverish– likely from all of the mead.
Gritting his teeth and taking deep, shaky breaths, Galahad makes it through the rest of his stitches with only minimal thrashing and wincing. On the last stitch, Tristan pulls the cat gut thread taut, and Galahad jerks violently, hips bucking and arms scrabbling.
“Shh, you’re alright,” Arthur soothes, giving Galahad’s arms a comforting squeeze where he pins him. Galahad meets his gaze, calmed by the fond, familiar face of his beloved captain.
When a hand grips his chin and turns his head, Galahad startles. Tristan’s hand is warm and firm on his face. His eyes are cold and unreadable. For a moment, he just holds him there, and Galahad lets him, at a loss for why Tristan has diverted his attention.
But all Tristan says is, “All done.” Then he lets Galahad go, slowly, and stands, leaving Galahad behind with a clean line of stitches and the burning after impression of the older knight’s hand on his cheek.
Arthur won’t even let Galahad stand to bid them farewell the next morning. His fellow knights just crowd around him to offer him claps on the shoulder and exchange words of encouragement before waving and galloping off into the rising sun.
And for the first time, Galahad and Tristan are left alone.
“I need to clean your wound again.”
Galahad glances up at Tristan. He’s already becoming fed up with having to look up at his designated caretaker.
“We already cleaned it yesterday,” Galahad argues.
“Not how that works. Shirt off.”
Galahad feels his cheeks flush once more, and tries to suppress the oddly intense urge to respond combatively. Instead, he just says, “Fine,” and begins to strip off his tunic. Immediately, he winces, and in a blink, Tristan is kneeling beside him, gently maneuvering Galahad’s arms out of the sleeves of his tunic.
Again, Galahad has to bite his tongue. Tristan is just helping. Just doing his duty. Still, it makes him feel like a child, or a doll, having Tristan undress him. He can feel the soft tickle of Tristan’s breath on his cheek. When Tristan’s hands probe gently around the stitched-up wound, Galahad lets out an embarrassing yelp.
“Sorry.”
“Why would you poke it?” Galahad asks accusingly.
“I’m inspecting it to gauge how the stitches took, and if it’s infected.”
“Can you not do that without poking it?”
“Poking it helps.”
When Tristan cleans the pus from around the stitches with a clean rag, Galahad flinches every time the man’s warm hand brushes against his bare skin. The frigid January air makes every touch of living warmth feel like a burn. If Tristan notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“Now what?” Galahad asks after Tristan has redressed his wound.
“Now what?” Tristan echoes, eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. “Now, I prepare breakfast, and you rest.”
Before Galahad can protest, Tristan is already on his way across the barn to where they’ve set up their supplies.
Galahad has just woken up, the sun is still rising in the sky, and now he’s meant to rest? For a moment, Galahad struggles to sit up properly, to join Tristan, but his entire torso immediately lights up in pain when he does. In seconds, he’s returned to lying stationary on his back, eyes wide at the utter intensity of the pain.
As the sun rises ever higher in the morning sky, so does the reality of the month ahead begin to dawn on Galahad.
He really is fully, truly out of commission. For the next few weeks, there will be no travel, no combat, no strategizing, no purpose– He just has to lie here and, and what? Sleep? Think? Sit bored, helpless, and alone?
“Porridge and venison bacon.”
Tristan’s shadow falls over Galahad as he holds out a wooden bowl in offering, and the wounded knight finds himself having to look up at his elder once more. The man’s face is neutral, but his eyes are glinting with that perpetual, quiet smile of his that bothers Galahad for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint.
Right. Not alone. For one month, he is going to be trapped, useless, and forced to allow Tristan to care for him.
Why is that thought so disquieting?
Tristan raises an eyebrow, and Galahad swallows hard. When he accepts the bowl from him, he does not meet his eyes.