Archive of Our Own ^beta

 Galahad wakes to the sound of voices. This isn’t unusual, as his flat does not exactly have thick walls, so he huffs and burrows deeper into his bedding. If his neighbors don’t quiet down in a few minutes, he’ll slap his hand against the wall once or twice to remind them that they’re not the only ones in the building. It’s not as if-

Wait.

He rubs his face against the pillow beneath him and breathes in deep. That is not the scent of his detergent or shampoo. The smell is muskier, woodsy and rough. And the pillowcase itself doesn’t feel like the one he usually sleeps on. The fabric is different. Honestly, it reminds him a little of Tristan.

His eyes snap open.

Tristan.

Memories of the night before flood into Galahad’s mind. The lead-up to why he’s lying naked in Tristan’s bed, of course, with all the writhing and sweating and moaning that had entailed, and oh, had it been a good time, but also the somewhat less legal things they had gotten up to earlier in the night. The breathless excitement of climbing off the back of Tristan’s motorcycle and tiptoeing behind a farmhouse. The mounting nerves of meeting up with other dark-clothed individuals, exchanging nods of greeting and only the bare minimum of whispered words. The wild exhilaration of entering the enclosures and oh so carefully coaxing out the beasts inside. The heart-aching fury of seeing their condition, and the channeling of that fury into guiding them to the safety of Tristan’s compatriots’ animal trailers. The rush of victory on the ride back, the way it made his hands shake as he tried to disrobe, the way it burst into ardor as he and Tristan tumbled into the sheets.

The voices rise slightly, their tone becoming sharper, even if Galahad still can’t quite hear what they’re saying. He gets the gist, though, and after a night like the last, he is almost certain knows exactly who is out there.

He pushes himself up and out of bed, not sparing a moment to revel in the lovely ache in his lower back and thighs, and grabs for the old green and brown jumper Tristan had left laying on the floor. It smells of sweat and earth and Tristan, and if he wasn’t in a rush, Galahad could have stood there and buried his face in the collar and just breathed it in for hours. As things are, though, he roughly tugs it on, makes sure the hem goes down just far enough on his thighs that he doesn’t risk flashing anyone, runs his hands through his hair to make it as messy as possible, and opens the bedroom door.

“Tristan?” he says, voice as soft and sleepy as he can make it. “Who’s here?”

The rental house is a very small one, more of a miniature cottage than anything, and the distance between the single bedroom and the front door is less than twenty steps. The raised voices immediately cease, leaving a startled silence. Galahad rubs at his eyes with one hand, just to further sell the illusion, before glancing at Tristan- shirtless, of course, and wearing the marks of both Galahad’s nails and the claws of one the cats from last night- and then peering at their unwanted visitors. As he’d suspected, it’s the police- one older and weatherworn and the other young and fresh-faced. Neither of them are holding handcuffs or anything, which is a good sign, but the younger cop does have a notepad in hand, which Galahad trusts far less.

“Hey, pup,” Tristan says. Galahad meets his eyes, and sees the obvious fondness there, and beneath it, the concealed concern and protectiveness. “It’s nothing to worry about. You can go back to bed.”

Galahad huffs, though he manages not to make it the full-blown scoff and eyeroll affair he’s tempted towards, and instead shuffles forward to take one of Tristan’s hands in his own and lean against his side. “What’s going on?” he asks the cops.

“There was an incident at one of the farms nearby,” the younger cop says, flipping one of the pages in his notepad. “The residents claim that someone stole some of their pets during the night.”

“Exotic pets,” the older cop adds. “Legal exotics, registered and all.” His gaze settles on the side of Galahad’s neck, where Galahad clearly remembers Tristan biting him during the pleasurable haze of their second round. “Can you account for your, uh, friend’s whereabouts between the hours of midnight and three am?”

Galahad clutches Tristan’s hand tighter. “He was here with me the whole time,” he says, allowing his own nerves and annoyance to slip past his facade a little. “Why? You can’t possibly think he’s involved.”

“We’re only checking things out for now,” the younger cop says. “Your friend here has a record, you know.”

“I do,” Galahad says, fiercer now, “and I also know he was here with me all night. I can show you more proof of that, if you really need it.” He grabs for the hem of his borrowed jumper, twitching his hand as if to lift it, and both policemen start to splutter even as Tristan catches his wrist.

“It’s alright, pup,” Tristan says. He presses a kiss to the side of Galahad’s head. Galahad recognizes the sound of his smile without needing to look, and it warms him down to his core.

The police don’t stay for much longer, as both Tristan and Galahad refuse to let them inside the house or to entertain their more probing questions. It’s clear that Galahad’s unexpected appearance has thrown them off their initial plan of attack. The older cop continues sneaking looks at him. It makes Galahad scowl, but it also causes Tristan to wrap an arm around him and hold him close, so Galahad doesn’t complain.

For the moment, at least.

With one last warning not to leave town, the younger cop snaps his notepad shut and turns to walk away. The older one lingers for a moment. “I saw you in my wife’s magazine,” he says to Galahad. “You had a pretty little sundress on.” He gives Galahad’s bare legs a long look, then follows his partner down the front path.

Galahad slams the door shut behind them. “Friend, my ass,” he snaps. “This was not how I wanted to start my morning.”

“What were you hoping for?” Tristan asks, nuzzling at the side of Galahad’s jaw. “Breakfast in bed?”

With a snort, Galahad pushes Tristan’s face away and disentangles himself from those strong arms. “I was hoping for a nice lie-in after last night. I could have easily slept the whole damn morning away. Suppose I should have known better, being here with you and all.”

Tristan follows him into the tiny kitchen, boxing him against the counter. “Galahad the Pure,” he says, warm with teasing. “So innocent of any possible wrong-doing.” His fingers catch the side of Galahad’s borrowed jumper and tug it upwards, exposing one of Galahad’s hips and causing Galahad to swat at him. “So sweet and virginal.”

“And that makes you Tristan the Absolute Bastard,” Galahad says around a laugh. “Now stop bothering me and make yourself useful. If I have to be up and stopping you from being carted off to jail this early in the day, I want to at least have some breakfast.” He turns his back to Tristan and opens one of the cabinets in search of nourishment. “Do we still have any eggs left, or did you use them all yesterday?”

They putter about in easy quiet for a while, Galahad scrambling the remaining eggs on the stovetop and Tristan tidying up the mess they’d made of the house the night before. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. It’s downright domestic, and it tugs at Galahad’s heart, promising things he still can hardly believe are within reach. He’ll have to go back to his flat in the city soon enough, he knows. He has modeling gigs lined up, contracts already signed and deposits already paid. And once the heat of this new bout of police attention dies down, Tristan will no doubt up and move again, make a temporary home of some other rental. This little cottage isn’t theirs, not really.

But right now, it feels like it could be.

Right now, he wants it to be.

“I’m glad you’re here, pup,” Tristan says, breaking the silence. He must have finished with his tidying, for he sounds much closer again, even if not close enough to touch.

Galahad hums as he portions the eggs out onto two plates. “You do need someone to help keep you out of trouble, you big oaf.”

Tristan chuckles. “I’d hardly consider your hands clean.” There is a slight shuffling noise, fabric rustling and floorboards creaking, and then he speaks again. “But I do mean it, pup. Galahad. You know what my life is like. I do not want to waste any more of it without you. I don’t want anyone else to mistake what you are to me.”

The sound of his given name in such a serious tone makes Galahad’s heart clench with sudden nerves. He thinks back to the the secrecy of the night before, and the suspicion in the eyes of the police. So much for his easy morning. Bracing himself for whatever is coming, he sets the eggs aside, flicks off the stove, and turns. “What are you talking about? Is something- Oh!” His hands fly up to cover his mouth.

Because there Tristan rests, down on one knee, right beyond the kitchen doorway. His hair is still a mess, and he is still covered in scratches and bites, and there is a hole in the thigh area of his pajama bottoms. He is the most gorgeous thing Galahad has ever seen. And in his hands sits an open box, and in that box sits a ring. Galahad thinks it might be a simple band, no gemstones in sight, but he can’t be sure, because his vision immediately starts to blur as his eyes prickle with tears.

“Galahad,” Tristan says again. His voice wavers, sounding thicker than Galahad has ever heard it. “I love you, my wild and beautiful pup. Can I keep you? Will you marry me?”

“Oh,” Galahad hears himself say, high-pitched and watery and muffled by his fingers. Tears escape his waterline and roll down over his cheeks, into his beard. He nods, a minuscule movement at first, and then he nods again, and again, and again, until it’s so forceful it almost hurts his neck. A noise that might be a yes and might be a curse and might just be animal sound tumbles out of his lips.

Tristan holds out a hand, and Galahad pulls one of his own away from his mouth, trembling, and the ring, lovely and simple and glinting in the morning light, comes to a perfect rest on his finger. Galahad laughs at the sight of it, exhilaration and joy bubbling out of him. Tristan smiles so side that all his crooked teeth gleam. Their mouths come together, and they kiss through the tears, and they kiss when the tears dry up, and they kiss when Galahad’s jumper rucks up and Tristan’s pajama bottoms slip down and their hands roam over warm, exposed skin.

“What about breakfast?” Tristan asks into the join of Galahad’s jaw as Galahad tries to lead them towards the bedroom.

Galahad lets out an irritated huff, ruined as it is by the smile that refuses to leave his lips, and tugs at one of Tristan’s messy braids. “That is what the fucking microwave is for. Now come on, do not make me wait.”

Grinning, Tristan grabs Galahad’s hand, the one now adorned by his ring, and the two of them stumble back into the bedroom. Galahad is already pulling off his borrowed jumper as the door swings closed behind them.

And the morning fills with the sound of raised voices once again, but this time tinged with nothing but love.