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Mithian watched the woman in front of her as she burst through the restaurant door, bustling to the table like a woman on a mission, and sat with a heavy thud in the chair, nearly knocking over the candlelit table in the process; she was clearly flustered, with wild eyes and frizzy hair and an endearing smile that said forgive me, I’m doing my best. 

“Hi, I’m so sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy and I really did try to leave early but my flatmate’s cat escaped and I had to chase her down the hall and—“ Elena took a deep breath and picked up the glass of water Mithian had ordered for her with shaky hands, taking a sip. 

Mithian slowly let the corners of her mouth turn up, biting back a full-on grin, said, “please, don’t worry about it, I’m glad you’re here now,” and reached over to clasp her hand in a gesture of reassurance— unfortunately, this had the opposite effect, and she was thanked by Elena choking on her water so hard she accidentally did a spit take directly into Mithian’s face.

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Gwaine stops in his tracks as he reaches for a bag of chips in the gas station, noticing someone for the first time he’s not sure how he missed before; she looks like a princess— no, an angel— stacking products so delicately on the shelves as if she were garnishing walls of a palace, soft brown curls framing around soft brown skin, and he can hardly be blamed for looking both ways carefully, to make sure no one saw, and plucking a single flower from the bouquets sitting gauche in buckets by the entrance so he can walk up to her and say, with all the charming air he was capable of, “I believe this belongs to you.”

The woman looks over at him, startled and blushing slightly, and he’s sure his charms worked until she says, unimpressed, “I believe that belongs to that unpurchased bouquet over there, actually.”

Gwaine smiles roguishly at her, undeterred, and introduces himself— she does not respond, only smiles to herself and goes back to work, but Gwaine has never been one to give up easily, so he continues: “I’d like to know your name— you look like a princess to me, so it’s probably something like Sophia or Esmeralda…” and he is delighted when she responds, with amusement in her voice, a name even better, even sweeter than he would’ve imagined:

“Gwen.”

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Lancelot, throughout his entire trial, hadn't bothered to look up and meet anyone's eyes-- it didn't matter what he really did, or what his intentions were, because regardless he couldn't stand the fact that he had disappointed them. But after hearing the prosecution spout such wretched things on his character, he stood abruptly without thinking and blurted, "May I say something, your honor?"

He locked eyes with the judge-- a blond haired, blue eyed, bloody gorgeous judge, who was raising an imperious eyebrow at him-- and completely forgot what he had been about to say, feeling stupid when the only words that would come out of his mouth were the usual bromides of "uh, I'm innocent, your honor."

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Morgana witnesses the whole thing, cringing internally: the way Elena had first been excited when the man saddled up to the stool next to her at the bar because someone seemingly knowledgeable about horses wanted to chat about it, then mild irritation as he insisted she should get someone to help her mount horses because Oh, what sweet thing you are, and then finally a hasty retreat from the man when she offered to share her experience in showjumping at this year's Olympics. 

"Have a good night, and if you ever want to be beaten in a horse race, you know where to find me," Elena calls to his back, taking a huge gulp of her fruity cocktail, and then nearly choking as she locks eyes with Morgana, who grins slow, like a lioness zeroing in on her prey. Morgana had known since she sat down that this was gold-medaling equestrian Elena Gawant, but she didn't know this kind of spirit lie within her-- Morgana had never been more proud of a woman she'd never met, nor so enchanted.

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After having known Morgana his entire life, Leon honest-to-gods almost burst into laughter when the King appointed him as Her Highness's royal bodyguard. In fact it was the people that likely needed protection from Morgana, but rules were rules, and he'd gladly stick to them if it meant coming into work every day to raven hair and ocean eyes, if it meant he could have his morning cup of coffee across from a smirk lit with amusement and challenge. He caught himself grinning, then abruptly stopped-- he would have to be there when Uther told the princess, he realized with a wince, and he might as well strap on the bulletproof vest now.

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Elyan tried not to laugh at Arthur, who was holding himself with his arms stiffly at his sides, looking straight ahead as countless bodies jumped and danced and sang in his ear. 

"You can let go every once in a while," Elyan said, brushing his lips against his ear as he spoke and pretending not to notice the shiver it elicited from Arthur.

Arthur's eyes slid to him abruptly-- like a warning-- and Elyan had to catch his intake of breath at the searing intensity, the desperation in his gaze, before he said, "No, I really can't."

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"Dr. Smith," Mithian greeted, peering over her shoulder, where Gwen sat furiously scribbling something onto scrap pages. 

Gwen jumped in her seat, nearly knocking her skull into Mithian's, and said "Dr. Nemeth, I'm so sorry!" with a sheepish smile on her face. 

Mithian had originally come to ask her to lunch, but she knew very well by now that once Gwen became passionate about a subject, there was no pulling her away from that-- she smiled fondly and sighed inwardly, disappointedly coming to the conclusion that just because she missed her doesn't mean she should distract her from the dissertation she was working so hard to write.

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"Hey, not that I don't love being smothered into an airline seat that smells vaguely of vomit, but... did anyone ever tell you you're too fucking big to fly coach?"

Percival chuckles a little, flipping resolutely through his magazine as Gwaine grumbles, leather squelching when he shifts uncomfortably.

Eventually Gwaine accepts his fate and sighs-- Percival can feel his chest moving under his bicep-- and muses, "I suppose if there's any way I'd like to go, it would be Death by Percy's Great Big Tree Trunk Arms."