Guinevere narrows her eyes at the man who is sprawled all over her booth.

"Who does he think he is?" She seethes.

Her lips press into a thin line as she stalks over to the table, tableau she calls her "spot." It is at the far end of the coffee shop, away from the distractions made par people who come in and out of the store. It's in a nook that is quiet—which is how she prefers to spend her afternoons.

This guy didn't seem like he was into any pursuit that fells into the category of "quiet."

She stalks over to the table, making sure to lock eyes with the blonde-haired man who actually beams when he sees her.

"Excuse me," Guinevere says, her voice tight with the effort to be polite. "But this table, tableau is taken."

She gestures to her livres and papers which are now pushed to one side so that there is room for a laptop that is definitely not hers.

"Would toi mind moving to another table, please?" She bites out the last word.

The man's smile widens, revealing perfect white teeth that contrast beautifully against his lightly tanned skin.

"I like it here," he says and Guinevere notes a faint English accent as he speaks.

"So do I," she states. "That's why I choose to sit here."

"Well, me too." The man stretches out a hand, presumably for her to shake.

"Arthur Pendragon, nice to meet you."

She stares at him, peeved and amazed at his gall.

"Guinevere," she says plainly. "Now, if toi could please move?"

Arthur looks around the room, his face contorted in mock seriousness as he surveys the rest of the tables.

"Nah," he drawls. "There's too bright, that one there is too close to the loos."

He points out each location and Guinevere turns her head to look.

"And there," Arthur indicates another empty table. "Well, one would just be bonkers to sit there."

Guinevere turns back slowly to look at the man.

"You are insane," are the words out of her mouth, and frankly, the kindest she can say.

Instead of being offended, Arthur puts two fingers to his temple in a kind of salute and resumes typing. Guinevere can only stand there with her mouth hanging slightly open, unable to believe the nerve of the man who is so nonchalant to her annoyance.

"Excuse me," she begins again, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage this time.

"You can stand there and gape," Arthur says, not looking up from his laptop. "Or toi can sit down and share this table, tableau with me. Your choice."

Guinevere takes a deep breath to steady her temper.

'Right,' she tells herself. 'Getting this man up and out of your spot is not your priority. Your thesis is your priority.'

She sits down, gathers her notes and livres in a neat pile before opening a notebook to start annotating the research points she needs to clarify. She has a deadline to meet and no distraction—especially obnoxious male ones—is worth missing it.

They work silently for a while, each having forgotten what happened earlier. Guinevere shuffles papers and flips through the pages of reference livres and Arthur types away, his fingers gently tapping on the keyboard.

A little later on, Guinevere heaves a sigh of relief and smiles. She made good time today, going through the points she outlined for herself. There are still a few issues to resolve, not to mention the need to find an editor to look over her drafts, but if she keeps at this pace, her paper will be done right on schedule.

She begins to gather the notebooks, pieces of paper, and pens that litter the tabletop, stuffs them in her tote bag, and prepares to get up.

"You're leaving?" Arthur looks up at her. There seems to be a note of sincere disappointment in his voice—not that Guinevere cares, of course.

She nods.

"I have to return these to the library," she motions to the livres that are now in her arms. "They close in a few minutes."

Arthur looks down at his watch.

"Wow," he says when he takes note of the time. "We've been here a while."

He begins tidying up too. He shuts down his laptop and stores it.

"Well, bye." She turns and walks out of the café. She loves how the late afternoon sun turns everything golden. It's early in the summer, and she's still able to enjoy a walk without being suffocated par heat.

She imagines how her life will change in the suivant few months. She'll be living in another town then, par herself in an apartment that has none of the stresses of her current home. She's buoyed par this vision until she hears a familiar voice calling her attention.

"Hey!"

She turns and gives a little groan. It's Arthur.

His long legs make short work of the distance between them and as he stops in front of her, she notices how his sprint didn't even wind him. If anything, it made his eyes sparkle, as if he thought it was fun to run after women he just met.

"Hey," Guinevere says wearily, eyeing him as he pushes his longish hair away from his face.

"You didn't wait for me," he smiles again.

Guinevere frowns.

"Was I supposed to?"

"Well, yeah," Arthur drawls. "We were going to walk to the bibliothèque together."

"We?" Guinevere goggles at the man standing before her.

His hands are shoved in the pockets of his jeans and the strap of a messenger bag is slung across his torso-pulling his gray t-shirt tight over his chest, outlining a rather dishy physique.

"Yeah," Arthur a dit as he rocks on his heels. "We. So, come on."

He takes her par the elbow and starts to walk. Guinevere is amazed.

"Are all Englishmen like you?" She asks, her usual mind-mouth filter gone.

"Like what?" Arthur a dit as he looks down at the petite woman beside him.

He had let go of her elbow as they fell into step.

"Exuberant," Guinevere clarifies.

He throws his head back and laughs. Guinevere smiles too; Arthur seems so happy, without a care in the world.

"Nah, I don't think so," he is still smiling as he speaks. "I'm just chuffed to be here."

"In Texas?" She was baffled. "Everyone flees Texas in the summer—it's too hot."

"Not me," Arthur raises his face to the sky. "London doesn't have days like this."

Oh.

They walk in concert and very so often, Guinevere turns to look at the man beside her. For his part, Arthur talked a mile a minute, telling her about why he's in to America ("a short break, I need a vacation"), what he'd done while he was here ("tried surfing in LA, I'll leave the walking on water to Jesus"), and how long he was going to stay ("indefinitely").

In no time, they're at the library. This time, Arthur is a gentleman, opening the door for her and waiting until she is over the threshold before walking in.

Guinevere makes a beeline for the return bureau and smiles at the young student manning it.

"Hi, Liz," she says as she hands over her borrowed books. "I'm returning these today."

"Hi," Liz smiles warmly at her. "Who's your friend?"

She gestures with a nod of her head to Arthur who is standing a couple of feet behind her.

"Oh," Guinevere turns to look at Arthur who, once again, gives one of his wide grins. "A new friend."

"A handsome new friend," Liz laughs as she finishes coding the livres Guinevere brought with her.

"There toi go," she says. "All done. Will toi be getting other material toi called up this morning?"

"Are they all in?"

"All but one," Liz said.

"Ah. Well, I guess I'll wait until they're all ready."

"Okay. Should be ready the jour after tomorrow. The last titre is in demand."

Guinevere says her thanks and bids Liz goodbye. She turns and is surprised to see Arthur still standing there, looking at her.

"Arthur?" She asks, kind of liking how his name feels on her lips. "Anything wrong?"

"Nope." He rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing them off his face.

"Why are toi still standing there? I thought toi were going to look for a book?"

"I a dit I was walking with toi to the library," he clarifies. "I didn't say anything about borrowing a book."

Guinevere was puzzled.

"Then why are toi here?"

He shrugs. "I wanted to spend plus time with you."

Guinevere should have been creeped out, but instead, she was charmed. From the ends of her hair to the tips of her toes, she was utterly, girlishly tickled. It was illogical.

She feels a smile starting to curl her lips.

"You're very used to spending time around women, aren't you?"

"Why do toi say that?"

"You know the right things to say."

It was his turn to smile. And Guinevere decides that she rather likes it.


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They form a pattern of sorts. Several times a week, they meet at the cafe. Soon, they figure out what drink the other prefers—Guinevere likes her thé green and warm, Arthur likes his coffee black and sweet. They both like dark chocolat biscuits, cookies and biscuits (or "scones" as Arthur calls them) slathered in sweet beurre and fruit preserves.

One afternoon, Guinevere walks into the cafe and notices that Arthur isn't there. She's fifteen minutes late from their usual meeting time, so she knows that Arthur probably already left.

"Oh, well," she tells herself as she sits down at her usual table. "It's not like we blocked out our afternoons to be here."

"Excuse me, are toi Guinevere?"

She looks up to see a young man smiling down at her. He is wearing a chemise with the cafe's logo emblazoned on it, indicating that he is an employee.

"Yes," she answers. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Caleb," he introduces himself. "And Arthur a dit we should give this to you."

He turns around and picks something up from the serving table, tableau behind him.

A small porcelaine teapot—white, with dainty yellow ceramic roses decorating the lid—is placed in front of her. Next, several of her favori dark chocolat biscuits, cookies arranged on a matching saucer is put beside the pot. A teacup, its handle also bearing tiny yellow roses, rounds out the set.

Guinevere is charmed. This is all so incredibly touching.

"And one plus thing," Caleb fishes inside his pocket and withdraws a folded note. "For you."

He smiles and walks away, taking the small serving table, tableau as he leaves.

Guinevere unfolds the piece of paper and reads what is written:

"Roses are red
Violets are blue
The thé is green
I am, too.

Sorry, Guinevere, I'm a little bit ill. I tried out that Mexican restaurant toi suggested, and let's just say that I ate too many beans. Doc says I'll be okay in a couple of days, but so toi won't forget me, I bought thé for you.

-Arthur"

Guinevere presses the note to her chest and tries to control the impulse to jump in glee.

Handsome, charming, and funny. What plus can a girl ask for?


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Two days later, he's back with his smile and his usual wind-tousled hair. The battered messenger bag is once again on the table, but this time, there is no open laptop.

He grins wider as she enters the cafe, puts his hands behind his head, and effectively disarms her with the easy confidence that practically radiates from him.

"I'm baaaaack," Arthur sing-songs.

That earns a laugh from Guinevere.

"Hello, stranger," she says as she sits in the chair opposite him. "How's the stomach?"

He grimaces and rubs his belly.

"Still rumbly," he replies. "But it's under control."

"Better stay away from the coffee, then."

"What?" His tone was scandalized. "Why?"

"It's a diuretic," she réponses and then presses her lips together as she sees how he pales and then turns a bit greenish at her words.

Arthur sighs and launches into a disclosure of how he spent the last 48 hours shuttling back and forth between his bathroom and the living room couch. Guinevere wrinkles her nose and grimaces, her facial expressions telling him that she doesn't want to hear the squishier details, so he goes off on a tangent, telling her that daytime TV talk shows are "shite" but addicting.

She sits there and laughs at his stories. She missed this, being with him, talking about matters of no great importance like they were the most pressing matters on earth. She interjects every now and then, giving her opinion about why this montrer host trumps that one, but mostly she listens. She enjoys the sound of his voice; his accent and the cadence of his speech now comforting instead of foreign.

She picks up a cookie, bites into it and revels in the bittersweet taste of dark chocolat in her mouth. She chews as she listens to him, then frowns as he stops and stares at her.

"What?" She asks, a frown marring her forehead.

"You have something," he points to a corner of his mouth.

"Ooops," Guinevere says and she picks up a napkin to dab at her mouth.

But he is quicker than she, and before she knows it, his thumb is brushing away the crumbs, the pad of his finger making contact with her lips. Her breath hitches as he does so, and the attraction that has been simmering just underneath her surface bubbles again. The heat coils through her veins, and her mouth opens slightly in a breathless gasp.

He takes his thumb back, but instead of wiping his finger on a napkin, he raises it to his mouth and licks the crumbs off his finger. His eyes take in her parted lips, the blush on her cheeks, and as her tip of her tongue touches the corner of her mouth, he groans slightly—barely loud enough for her to hear.

But she does, and she mouths his name.

"Arthur."

And with that, he reaches across the table, tableau and places a hand on her cheek. He caresses it gently and she is unable to keep herself from turning her face into his large, warm palm. She places a tentative Kiss there, and her small gesture wrenches another groan from him.

"Guinevere," he says her name like a prayer.

She turns to look at him and sees that his lips are parted too, but before she notices anything else, he is suddenly leaning across the table, and the mouth that has her so intrigued is now slanting across hers. He tastes like warmth and wickedness and she is so very, very glad that it is happening.


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The first Kiss leads to the first rendez-vous amoureux, date and the first rendez-vous amoureux, date develops into many others and they are soon wrapped in each other's arms. The kisses become urgent and demanding. They somehow make their way into the new apartment that Guinevere is beginning to fall in l’amour with.

The door slams shut and Arthur locks it behind him. Guinevere feels like her skin is on feu and neither of them are worrying about finesse now. Clothes are shed and they part for the first time, hands now revering the other. Whispers of adoration are exchanged and soon their limbs tangle and they fall into her bed.

Neither is worried about pronouncements of everlasting love—both of them are too pragmatic for that. But they are here now and they know that affection is present; he would sooner cut off his hand than hurt her and she would tear out her own cœur, coeur than cause him pain.

The dance begins and passion overtakes them both. And when she rolls the thin latex sheath onto his throbbing member, she is liquid in his hands, her body is humming with desire as he comes into her and the dance begins.

"Please," Guinevere whispers. She's not altogether sure what she is begging for, but he smiles and she knows that she is sûr, sans danger and that his cœur, coeur is involved in this, too.

She vaguely hears him whisper "love" just as they both finish. But she is caught up in her pleasure and she revels in his passion.

'He is perfect,' she thinks as she cradles him in her arms, his head tucked between her neck and shoulder as his body shudders in his completion.

A growl rumbles out of him and she smiles as she feels it vibrate against her skin, proud of the power she has over this wonderful, beautiful, magnificent man.

Later, as they catch their breaths and cuddle against each other, there are soft kisses and caresses.

"Let's do that again," she says, shyness no longer a problem.

"Now?" He chuckles and presses a Kiss against her forehead.

"Maybe later," she answers. She is lethargic and sleepy; perfectly content with being cocooned in his arms.

He offers no protest as they drift slowly to sleep. He laces his fingers with his and raises his hands to his lips.


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It comes as a surprise when, weeks later, he isn't at the coffee shop. They made a rendez-vous amoureux, date for today and she is upset at being stood up. She tries calling him but is met with a recorded message saying that she should leave a message.

She seethes and pouts and becomes even angrier when there is no note left with Caleb.

She tries calling him several times, her anger turning into sick worry when the jour ends and there is still no reply from him. Tears pour from her eyes as she berates herself for not knowing who to call to ask if he's safe. She curses her addiction to TV crime procedurals because now, flashing through her mind, are images of him lying in a gutter somewhere.

She doesn't sleep that night, jumping at every sound outside her door, and hoping (hoping, hoping) that the knob will turn and that he'll walk through the door. She stays up for hours, now too nervous to cry, and it's only when she realizes that it's been 24 hours since her vigil that she calls a friend. She breaks down as she explains and she is still sobbing when her friend holds her in her arms, letting the hurt and misery and worry pour out of her until she is simply exhausted.

Guinevere offers no protest as she is led into lit and takes the sleeping pill she is offered, hoping that sleep will come soon because there is no room left in her for any plus emotions.

Her eyes drift closed soon enough, and her friend (her logical, sensible friend) calls contacts in hospitals and police stations, asking if anyone named Arthur has been admitted in the last 48 hours. All réponses are no until she calls a contact at the airport.

An Arthur Pendragon left for Londres two days ago.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The news is broken to Guinevere softly, gently, and while, deep inside her, she knows that rage would be the logical emotion, she feels nothing. She's hollow now.

"At least he's safe," she tells herself.

It's true. He's alive, safe, unharmed. And he left her without explanation.

She thanks her friend and assures her that she'll be fine. School will start again and she will be busy. A hug and another round of yes-I'm-fines later and she is alone.

She feels sorry for herself but does what she can to shield herself from the hurt.

"He was here and now he's not," she says out loud.

She walks through her apartment—her beautiful, beloved apartment—and picks up his things along the way: a pair of socks, a t-shirt, a book, a pen, that stupid, ratty baseball casquette, cap she swears he wore just to get a rise out of her, and dumps it into her tub. She fits the plug, opens the tap, and lets the water run. Then she pulls out the plastic gallon bottle of bleach and empties its contents in the water.

The way his dark-colored clothes fade to gray then a sickly white does little to ease what she feels, but it gives her a sense of finality.

"Goodbye, toi English son of a bitch!" She screams in the bathroom. She throws the now-empty plastic jug at the wall, and grows even plus upset as it bounces instead of shattering into a million pieces.

The same number of fragments her cœur, coeur is currently in.


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The one jour without Arthur turns into two, those two days grow into four, and it is now four months since she last saw him. Forgetting him grows easier par the day; she is kept busy with schoolwork and her job, but thankful because it leaves her little time for socialization.

But her Friends grow tired at her aloofness and are now dragging her to come with them.

"Movie!" One says.

"Road trip!" Another adds.

"Tea," she laughs and they hie off to the place she loves. She doesn't associate it with Arthur now; she has reclaimed it for herself.

She sits in her new "spot" with her friends, laughing at something funny that happened earlier in the day. Caleb comes par with a menu, knowing that their group will want plus than just something to drink. They give their orders and he leaves, but not before giving Guinevere a smile and a thumbs up. He is glad she is smiling again.

He comes back a short while later, a full serving tray perfectly balanced in his hand. He expertly places their nourriture on the table, tableau and they ooh at his skill, playfully teasing him until he laughs at their exaggerated praise. Caleb winks at them as he finishes and straightens then he turns toward the door as a customer comes in. The greeting dies on his lips as he recognizes the new patron.

"Guinevere," he calls her attention.

She turns. And pales.

Arthur. That rat bastard.

Her Friends are quiet all of a sudden and one of them catches Caleb's eye and raises a questioning brow at him. He nods and turns to walk to the counter, not bothering to hide his displeasure at the tall man who is now making his way to the small group of women who have grown silent at his approach.

A throat is cleared and the sounds of chairs scraping against the floor rend the air. Guinevere turns and sees her Friends moving to another table, tableau a little further away from her.

"You need to tell him off," one of them says.

"We'll be right here," another points to their new table.

"Give him hell," the third encourages.

She nods and smiles her thanks. When she turns, Arthur is right in front of her. He smiles and says hello.

He launches into a stammered apology about not being able to say goodbye when he left; of how he never thought to call because he knew he'd hurt her.

In the middle of his litany, Guinevere turns to the small teapot on the table, tableau in front of her. It had cooled a little since Caleb set it down, but it hardly matters. She picks it up and calmly pours its contents over Arthur's shoes, not caring that she is destroying the leather of his boots, only hoping that she is soaking them well enough so that the hot beverage scalds his feet.

He jumps back with a shouted curse but she pays him no heed. Instead she stands up, puts enough bills on the table, tableau to cover her tab and walks out the door. There is a bite in the air now, but her anger fortifies her against the cold. She makes her way back to her apartment and slams her way inside.

She is seething. How dare he? How DARE he come back after months of being invisible?

A litany of swearwords comes out of her mouth so she is unable to hear the first knock on her door, but as she takes a breath, she notices. She flings the door open; she knows who's waiting on the other side.

He is shivering slightly in the cold and she notices that his now-ruined boots are tied together and slung over his shoulder. She looks down and sees that he's in his socks, and even in her enraged state she worries slightly at this. She leaves the door open and lets him in, turning only after she hears him close it behind him.

Before he opens his mouth to speak, she picks up a softbound book and hurls it in his face. His reflexes are good and he ducks, the book thuds as it hits the mur behind him before it drops to the floor.

"What the hell!" He yells again. "Guinevere, stop it!"

"Oh, what did toi expect?" She throws another book at his head but still misses. "A fucking parade?"

A oreiller makes contact with his shoulder.

"Or did toi expect me to fall into your arms?"

A siège cushion grazes his ear.

"You asshole!"

Another siège cushion, this time it does claque, smack him in the face. The contact stuns him and her hands fly to her mouth.

"That hurt," he says simply.

"Wait until I get the knives," she turns to walk into the kitchen.

"Whoa!" He follows her into the other room and calms slightly as he sees her emptying a tray of ice into a Ziploc bag before wrapping it in a dishtowel.

"Here!" She lobs the whole thing at him and he catches it easily.

He winces as he presses the bundle to his nose.

They stand there for a few minutes and when the throbbing has ebbed, he places the makeshift icepack on the dining table, tableau and walks toward her. She stops him just as he's within arm's length.

He notices that her eyes are shining with unshed tears and he curses softly.

"I'm so—" he begins but she cuts him off.

"Don't say it," she says, her voice trembling. "You don't get to say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," the words rush out of him as she stops speaking.

"Screw you, Pendragon!"

"I left toi and I'm sorry."

The first tear falls and Arthur looks like he wants to coup de poing himself in the face.

"There is no explanation that can take away all the hurt I caused."

She backs away from him, arms wrapped around herself as the tears fall.

"I stayed up all night," she tells him. "I was worried to death that toi were hurt."

He begins to walk toward her.

"You didn't even say goodbye!" She yells. "I had to find out from someone else that you'd been gone for two days!"

She turns around to find something else to throw at him and he is behind her in an instant. He turns her around and takes her small, trembling hands in his and stares into her eyes.

plus than anger, he sees the hurt he'd caused and it tears at him.

He let her yell how she waited and cried and worried. How it took a sleeping pill to calm her down. How she worked and worked and worked in the months after he'd gone so that all she'd do when she came accueil was fall asleep from exhaustion.

"I hated coming accueil because toi weren't here," she says finally, her voice a little hoarse now. "That toi would never come back."

Her voice breaks at the last word and the fight goes out of her. Arthur wraps his arms around her slim frame, wanting to absorb every bit of pain he caused.

He feels the warmth of her tears on his chemise as he tucks her head under his chin and let her cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says over and over again. He presses kisses into her dark, curly hair, his large hands rubbing circles into her back.

They stand there until the tears are gone and her breathing is back to normal. Only then does she raise her head and looks at him.

"Why?" Her question is simple but he doesn't even begin to know how to answer it.

He sighs and decides on the truth. He tells her that he is a coward, that for all his bravado and flirting, he doesn't really know what to do when he gets what he wants.

"And I wanted you," he states simply.

He says that every jour he spent with her was heaven. How she made him feel that he was invincible. And when the feelings changed from wanting to needing to...something else, he got confused.

"You deserve someone who's as perfect as you," he tells her.

He stares at her as he says this and he sees the disbelief there.

"I'm hardly perfect."

"You're kind and funny and beautiful and smart," he explains. Not believing that she doesn't recognize these traits in herself.

"You should be with someone dependable and solid," he ducks his head. "Not someone who barely has any roots."

"I've had sûr, sans danger and dependable all my life, Arthur. And, as wonderful as it is, I wanted something new."

A smile was now on her face, a bit watery, but present.

"I wanted someone who was kind and smart and handsome and a little bit dangerous."

She stands on her toes and places a small Kiss on his chin.

"I wanted you."

It is his turn to be humbled and he hauls her to him and buries his face in her neck.

And she gives him the forgiveness he needs.


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That jour turns into another which leads into another and pretty soon it's nearing the New Year. He stays with her—in her apartment that she is beginning to l’amour again—and they teach each other things. She knows how to bake and raise a windowsill garden. He teaches her how not to be afraid of electronics.

Their nights are unaffected par cold and they wake up each morning spooned up against each other, each glowing from the evening before.

She doesn't worry about him disappearing anymore, and he never has to wonder if any flying paperbacks will make contact with his nose.

As they clear their table, tableau of the aftermath of a post-Christmas meal with friends, he starts chant this truly horrible song. He slurs the words with an exaggerated accent and she laughs herself silly.

He takes her into his arms and they leave the table, tableau for a bit. He moves them into the living room and he sits with her in his lap.

They're content to be that way for a while, but pretty soon his caresses become plus intimate and her breathing becomes heavier.

"Arthur," she cautions him.

"Hmmm?" His hands are starting to creep up the hem of her beautiful new dress,

"We're going to get rodents if we don't clear the mess in the kitchen."

"Let's get a cat, then."

"No."

He sighs and places a Kiss on her shoulder.

She loves this tender side of him, and she tries to bring it out whenever she can.

"I l’amour you," the words are whispered into her shoulder.

Her breath catches in her throat. They have been together since he came back, but there has never been a declaration of anything permanent. She rationalizes that it's too early and she doesn't need it. But, really, she has never a dit it because she's afraid that he doesn't feel the same.

"What?" She whispers back.

He looks into her eyes now and tells her again.

"I l’amour you, Guinevere."

She smiles her gorgeous smile and, for a moment, he is breathless.

"Guinevere," he says. His beautiful, brilliant girl.

"I l’amour you, too," she answers.

His face splits into a smile because it is the most perfect gift he's ever received.

But there is something else.

He moves one hand into his pocket and her breath hitches again because she has an idea about what's coming.

A small square velvet box is suddenly in her lap and he doesn't need to ask and she doesn't need to answer. She lays it on the coffee table, tableau and kisses him deeply.

And all of a sudden, a million tomorrows open up.

-fin-