FIC: He Which Hath No Stomach To This Fight (Shakespeare, Henry IV, G)
Title: He Which Hath No Stomach To This Fight
Play: Henry IV, Henry V
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ned Poins (with some incredibly vague Hal/Poins)
Rating: G
Word Count: 444
Summary: Prince Hal isn't the only one who went respectable.
Notes: For a_t_rain.
Ned Poins hadn't thought of Prince Hal in years when his son asked if they might go to see King Henry ride through London in triumph.
Of course he'd done trade with King Henry's court, you couldn't not if you'd been enterprising enough to marry the only daughter of a particularly well-heeled London vintner, but King Henry (as England had remarked in wonder upon his accession) was hardly the same man as old Hal had been.
This hadn't been a surprise to Ned, of course, because he may not have been in line for a comfortable inheritance and an estate in Gloucestershire like his brother John, but he knew a thing or two about how it worked with kings and courts and he'd figured that the thing he and Hal had had going wasn't going to last. Well, what of it? It was fun while it did last. Gallants, lads, hearts of gold, old Jack Falstaff had called them in those days.
So Ned and his son Will had joined the throng on Fleet Street and watched as Henry the Fifth, hero of Agincourt, rode through the streets of London with his assembled nobility behind him and his arms borne before him, and it was all so serious that he nearly started to laugh.
Ned would have had to admit, if you asked him, that he did try to gain an audience with the new king, after his coronation. You couldn't blame a man for trying, could you? But the difference between himself and Falstaff was that, when he found himself suddenly without princely favor, he'd moved on and married money. Princes, after all, were nothing to break your heart over. He knew that. Not like Falstaff: he'd been a sentimental old fool and it had killed him, surer than the sack and gluttony and poxy women had done. Well, God rest his soul, wherever it was. If nothing else, the dicing tricks Ned had learned from him had provided him with enough income to convince old Master Stockton that he'd be a good match for his daughter Margery (and her considerable inheritance).
And so now here he stood, forty years old and a thoroughly respectable citizen, with Will sitting atop his shoulders gleefully waving a handkerchief, and his old partner in crime, King of England, on his white charger looking for all the world like one of the tomb effigies in the Abbey, and you'd never know to look at either of them about the highway robberies, the late-night dice games and drinking contests and wench-swapping and -- well, a man didn't have to admit everything about his misspent youth to himself, did he?
Play: Henry IV, Henry V
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Ned Poins (with some incredibly vague Hal/Poins)
Rating: G
Word Count: 444
Summary: Prince Hal isn't the only one who went respectable.
Notes: For a_t_rain.
Ned Poins hadn't thought of Prince Hal in years when his son asked if they might go to see King Henry ride through London in triumph.
Of course he'd done trade with King Henry's court, you couldn't not if you'd been enterprising enough to marry the only daughter of a particularly well-heeled London vintner, but King Henry (as England had remarked in wonder upon his accession) was hardly the same man as old Hal had been.
This hadn't been a surprise to Ned, of course, because he may not have been in line for a comfortable inheritance and an estate in Gloucestershire like his brother John, but he knew a thing or two about how it worked with kings and courts and he'd figured that the thing he and Hal had had going wasn't going to last. Well, what of it? It was fun while it did last. Gallants, lads, hearts of gold, old Jack Falstaff had called them in those days.
So Ned and his son Will had joined the throng on Fleet Street and watched as Henry the Fifth, hero of Agincourt, rode through the streets of London with his assembled nobility behind him and his arms borne before him, and it was all so serious that he nearly started to laugh.
Ned would have had to admit, if you asked him, that he did try to gain an audience with the new king, after his coronation. You couldn't blame a man for trying, could you? But the difference between himself and Falstaff was that, when he found himself suddenly without princely favor, he'd moved on and married money. Princes, after all, were nothing to break your heart over. He knew that. Not like Falstaff: he'd been a sentimental old fool and it had killed him, surer than the sack and gluttony and poxy women had done. Well, God rest his soul, wherever it was. If nothing else, the dicing tricks Ned had learned from him had provided him with enough income to convince old Master Stockton that he'd be a good match for his daughter Margery (and her considerable inheritance).
And so now here he stood, forty years old and a thoroughly respectable citizen, with Will sitting atop his shoulders gleefully waving a handkerchief, and his old partner in crime, King of England, on his white charger looking for all the world like one of the tomb effigies in the Abbey, and you'd never know to look at either of them about the highway robberies, the late-night dice games and drinking contests and wench-swapping and -- well, a man didn't have to admit everything about his misspent youth to himself, did he?