The Enemy Of My Enemy [Lancelot]

[Westley Roberts]

It seemed that seeking people out had very quickly become Westley's new hobby. He could hardly name a task he'd completed since his return that hadn't involved tracking down some former friend, foe, or otherwise. Not that he was remotely winded—he'd be a disgrace to piracy if he was; quests were to him what golf was to others—but for a change of pace, he'd decided to go about this one differently.

This was a different case from the outset, after all. His desire to meet this person didn't stem from nostalgia, from the pursuit of gains, or from his mission to disentangle Della from the grasp of Hades (though that remained first priority). He'd readily admit that his motivation here was curiosity. Intrigue, even. The moment he'd matched a name to the photograph-turned-dartboard in Gaston's office, he'd made a mental note. Underlined several times, figuratively. It may have been true that his chat with Gaston had left him pleasantly surprised, but only because he hadn't expected anything human or rational from the man, let alone willing cooperation. It made them civil associates for the time being, but certainly not friends, nor would they ever be. Westley had the distinct feeling that Gaston's list of adversaries might as well double as a Directory of Decent Folks, every one a prospective ally worth meeting. A rather ingenious place to start, at the very least. 

He waited at his desk, a pair of drinks already poured in front of him. Scotch neat; one rock glass before him, the other at the empty seat he faced. Having an office was an entirely new concept for him—it was relatively sparse so far, adorned only with small framed portraits of Buttercup and Waverly at his elbow—but if he'd picked up on anything from the faculty who'd arrived before him, it was that they all spent an ungodly amount of time in theirs. He thought it might be a breath of fresh air for Lancelot to escape the infirmary for a while. Precisely why he'd slipped a note into the medic's inbox, half an hour ago or so, give or take.


                Sir Lancelot;

           It's come to my attention that you and I may have a thing or two in common. 

           Should you find yourself in need of a break, come to my office hours, room
           G-87. I'd be very interested in making your acquaintance. 

                                                                                              Cordially, 
                                                              Westley Roberts
                                                              Professor, Fencing History and Application


Others might have found it a waste of time to sit and wait with no guarantee of the other party's arrival. Not Westley. He had a certain gut instinct for these things. Biding his time was simply an investment, and it would pay off very soon. After all, he was expecting the antithesis of Gaston, and the antithesis of Gaston was bound to be a gentleman, both punctual and willing to investigate a friendly invitation.

[Lancelot du Lac]

First, Lance was late. Not too late, just a little, and it wasn't a matter of punctuality so much as "he had shit to do." That's what happened when you were the only school medic in a school that literally had two classes dedicated to fighting people and a vice president or whatever he technically was of Grayle. Oh, and he was still technically a knight, though he didn't exactly get to do a lot of knightly things these days. Mostly punching people with some training mixed in for good measure.

He did arrive, and he only looked a bit worse for wear: hair slightly disheveled (mostly from running his hands through it and cursing out one person or another, most often the headmaster, but there were others), clothes slightly rumpled, though he did have what appeared to be a short sword, just in the off chance this guy was someone who wanted to fight him for whatever reason. Would not be the first time.

"Westley Roberts?" he asked as he stood in the doorway, looking around. "If you wanna kill me, you're going to have to get in line. Otherwise, hi, I'm Lancelot du Lac, medic, vice-president, knight of the Summer Country," he raised a hand, "fill in the blank."

[Westley Roberts]

All right, so Lancelot wasn't prompt. It did nothing to change the positive opinion Westley had already formed of the man. He didn't even notice until the voice in the doorway claimed his attention; in the meantime, he'd busied himself writing letters home. He tapped them into a neat stack and set them aside, looking up with an amicable smile. 

"Yes," he confirmed. "That's me." He sized up Lancelot as Lancelot sized up his office. The poor man looked as if he'd already endured a week straight from hell, and it was only Wednesday. Hardly uncommon here. Hopefully, Lancelot would be open to Westley's overture, once the former knew a bit better what was going on, and hopefully, it would prove to have come at just the right time for him. In all the combined years Westley had spent at this school, he'd never known having a friend to spare to be a bad thing. And if Lancelot was as fundamentally good as Gaston's hatred of him suggested, Westley would be more than glad to provide a port in whatever storm had made the man look like he hadn't slept since the early thirteenth century. 

"I have no interest in killing you, no. None whatsoever." The fact that he'd needed to clarify that at all was almost funny, but Westley managed to stop short of laughing, considering how rarely it was a joke in this place. He gestured to the empty seat across from him, and to the drinks he'd set out. "Please, come in, come in, have a seat. Make yourself at home." Then, because he knew better than to expect a wary stranger to trust him, he cut to the chase: "We have an adversary in common. Any person who's earned the ire of Gaston must be a quality human being in my book, and you seem to be the only one on that list who isn't already a dear friend of mine. Consider this my buying you a drink."