He walked slowly to his desk, where the oil lamp was still burning, and removed his armor and boots, standing at last in dusty, sweaty tunic and trousers.
He contemplated changing clothes, then thought the hell with it and made his way to the bed.
He flopped down beside the other man as gently as he could, and sighed, stretching his sore back and legs.
Turning to look at Lancelot, his eyes traced the other man's chest, covered in healing bruises and cuts. His hand rose of its own accord, and touched one lightly.
His frustration and anger and the blase-ness of the other captains rose again, and his hand formed a fist before moving to run softly up Lancelot's arm, finally feeling his pulse, then his skin, which was only a tiny bit warm. He seemed better, but the bags under his eyes belied what Arthur was seeing.