Fic: Single Steps/Small Beginnings (BBC's Robin Hood)
Pairing: Robin Hood/Guy of Gisborne
Rating: PG-13/light R
Warnings: Violence, implied sex.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: I've seen four episodes of this series. ... It kinda grabbed me.
Summary: Maybe, you think, maybe it’s because your victories are always temporary, while his, if he ever gets it, will be permanent. Maybe he can afford to bide his time.
You release the tension of the string, the arrow whipping into the ground, leaving a shallow scratch under Guy’s chin. “Nice try,” you say. “But not good enough.”
- - -
Beginnings; you don’t think in beginnings. You think in moments, in spaces, in achievements. Bold slices of life sharp with adventure, daring, rescue. The whistle of an arrow does not mark a beginning.
No; more often, it marks an end.
~*~
You beat him, this time.
The fight is rough and hard, against stone and earth. Swords, briefly, then down to fists and determination, both of you exhausted by the end, trickles of blood seeping into grey-brown earth.
Then you have him, an arrow to his throat, the near-unfamiliar curve of an English bow tight in your hand.
His face is tight with both defiance and acceptance of this, albeit temporary, defeat.
Maybe, you think, maybe it’s because your victories are always temporary, while his, if he ever gets it, will be permanent. Maybe he can afford to bide his time.
You release the tension of the string, the arrow whipping into the ground, leaving a shallow scratch under Guy’s chin. “Nice try,” you say. “But not good enough.”
~*~
Once you kiss for the first time - kiss, what a joke, this violence isn’t anything like a kiss - you know you’ll never be able to live without it. A desire you never knew was there, a beast clawing free of a cage you it used to be you couldn’t break.
You struggle against him, vicious, full of violence, full of want. And he slams your shoulder back into the ground, bruising it against an upraised root; still, when you kiss, he’s grasping at the unknowable, war-torn passion as fiercely as you are.
The horror of this - the absolute, earth-rending horror, is that you both know it will happen again.
~*~
Time after time - time after time it happens, until you know you’re letting him catch you, until he knows he’s letting you escape, until both of you know that the chase is more important.
~*~
He slaughters a villager, with casual brutality. Sniffs as he wipes his blade clean of blood.
You shoot a guardsman through the throat.
He stands by the Sheriff’s side, obedient and transparent in one instant, rebellious and shrouded the next.
Your thefts get more daring. Your band does nothing but cheer it on, though Marian - Marian can always tell.
He pauses, on the bend of a path, adjusting his gloves.
You watch.
He knows.
~*~
Guy is capable of gentleness. You know this, though you don’t feel it from him. His hands are always cruel on your flesh, rough and unkind; this is why you fight, because when you beat him, the cruelty is what you wanted all along. It lights a fire inside you, and when it does, you forget about the ashes from the last time.
~*~
You tell yourself that you break into Guy’s bedchamber because it’s a challenge, challenge to outwit the guards, to move silent as the grave, to trap Guy where he can’t fight back.
And you do.
But -
“Robin,” he hisses, his eyes barely visible. You are drawn by the contrast between Guy’s skin and his dark, mussed hair; you reach out to touch, and Guy’s hand closes around your wrist, hard as stone.
“Guy,” you say, sing-song, a parody of politeness.
Before now, the pleasure you’ve taken in him has been only in bits and pieces, in the shadows, fierce and quick. The coarse skin on his hands, the strength in his body.
He seizes you, now, and throws you to the bed, on top of you before you think of resisting.
So you think about it. And you disregard it.
He takes both of your wrists in his hand, his breath in your ear, and he pins you down - but his hands are gentle. He doesn’t hurt you, and you don’t resist.
You can feel the calculation in his gaze, even if you can’t see it.
But here, manipulation goes both ways. And that’s equality, of a sort.
~*~
It’s in a flash that you have Guy back against a tree, disarmed, the dull evening light settling around you in the near-silence only the forest can provide.
Guy hisses, though you’ve barely touched him; his eyes are cast down and to the left, his body tense against yours. “Robin,” he says, and his voice is husky, gentle as it is when he inflicts the greatest of hurt, “it’s dangerous.” The words are meant as a refusal, a rejection of the desire that sings sharp between you. And true, this is the most public of any that you’ve cornered him.
But that’s not all you hear.
It’s only when you meet Guy’s eyes yourself that you know and understand the truth: out of the two of you, Guy of Gisborne is the first one to show weakness.
There’s a tempest within him, held from you by a thin, vulnerable line; I want you, you read in him, you torment me, and you realize that your capacity for kindness is, perhaps, only matched by an equal capacity for cruelty.
You could reassure him that you would know if any of your band approached. That the guards are far away, that you and he are alone in the forest. But reassurance, now, would be mockery.
The dagger is in your hand almost before you decide; the tip of it pricks into Guy’s neck, not quite hard enough to draw blood.
“Safer now?” you ask. And your first idea was to disguise what is between you, cloak it even so that another watching wouldn’t be able to see.
Guy exhales, short and fast. “Not in the least.”
And you understand exactly what he means.
~*~
He still stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the authority you would destroy. He has still taken everything from you - or at least calmly, enigmatically assisted another who would.
He is still cruel. It is not an affectation, it is a part of him, but his harshness is always calculated, and so is his gentility.
Yours is uncalculated; it always has been. You are impulsive. You are dashing, brave, heroic.
He is none of those.
But you know each other now, inside and out, in broken gasps and sweat-slick flesh. You’ve breathed in at the crook of his neck, in exhausted aftermath; he’s stayed awake, watching you, long after you pretend to fall asleep. You know what he’ll do before he does it, and, though he doesn’t let on, you assume he understands just as readily.
And yet, you remain free, and he remains caged.
But then, perhaps the beginning hasn’t happened yet.
Rating: PG-13/light R
Warnings: Violence, implied sex.
Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine.
Notes: I've seen four episodes of this series. ... It kinda grabbed me.
Summary: Maybe, you think, maybe it’s because your victories are always temporary, while his, if he ever gets it, will be permanent. Maybe he can afford to bide his time.
You release the tension of the string, the arrow whipping into the ground, leaving a shallow scratch under Guy’s chin. “Nice try,” you say. “But not good enough.”
- - -
Beginnings; you don’t think in beginnings. You think in moments, in spaces, in achievements. Bold slices of life sharp with adventure, daring, rescue. The whistle of an arrow does not mark a beginning.
No; more often, it marks an end.
~*~
You beat him, this time.
The fight is rough and hard, against stone and earth. Swords, briefly, then down to fists and determination, both of you exhausted by the end, trickles of blood seeping into grey-brown earth.
Then you have him, an arrow to his throat, the near-unfamiliar curve of an English bow tight in your hand.
His face is tight with both defiance and acceptance of this, albeit temporary, defeat.
Maybe, you think, maybe it’s because your victories are always temporary, while his, if he ever gets it, will be permanent. Maybe he can afford to bide his time.
You release the tension of the string, the arrow whipping into the ground, leaving a shallow scratch under Guy’s chin. “Nice try,” you say. “But not good enough.”
~*~
Once you kiss for the first time - kiss, what a joke, this violence isn’t anything like a kiss - you know you’ll never be able to live without it. A desire you never knew was there, a beast clawing free of a cage you it used to be you couldn’t break.
You struggle against him, vicious, full of violence, full of want. And he slams your shoulder back into the ground, bruising it against an upraised root; still, when you kiss, he’s grasping at the unknowable, war-torn passion as fiercely as you are.
The horror of this - the absolute, earth-rending horror, is that you both know it will happen again.
~*~
Time after time - time after time it happens, until you know you’re letting him catch you, until he knows he’s letting you escape, until both of you know that the chase is more important.
~*~
He slaughters a villager, with casual brutality. Sniffs as he wipes his blade clean of blood.
You shoot a guardsman through the throat.
He stands by the Sheriff’s side, obedient and transparent in one instant, rebellious and shrouded the next.
Your thefts get more daring. Your band does nothing but cheer it on, though Marian - Marian can always tell.
He pauses, on the bend of a path, adjusting his gloves.
You watch.
He knows.
~*~
Guy is capable of gentleness. You know this, though you don’t feel it from him. His hands are always cruel on your flesh, rough and unkind; this is why you fight, because when you beat him, the cruelty is what you wanted all along. It lights a fire inside you, and when it does, you forget about the ashes from the last time.
~*~
You tell yourself that you break into Guy’s bedchamber because it’s a challenge, challenge to outwit the guards, to move silent as the grave, to trap Guy where he can’t fight back.
And you do.
But -
“Robin,” he hisses, his eyes barely visible. You are drawn by the contrast between Guy’s skin and his dark, mussed hair; you reach out to touch, and Guy’s hand closes around your wrist, hard as stone.
“Guy,” you say, sing-song, a parody of politeness.
Before now, the pleasure you’ve taken in him has been only in bits and pieces, in the shadows, fierce and quick. The coarse skin on his hands, the strength in his body.
He seizes you, now, and throws you to the bed, on top of you before you think of resisting.
So you think about it. And you disregard it.
He takes both of your wrists in his hand, his breath in your ear, and he pins you down - but his hands are gentle. He doesn’t hurt you, and you don’t resist.
You can feel the calculation in his gaze, even if you can’t see it.
But here, manipulation goes both ways. And that’s equality, of a sort.
~*~
It’s in a flash that you have Guy back against a tree, disarmed, the dull evening light settling around you in the near-silence only the forest can provide.
Guy hisses, though you’ve barely touched him; his eyes are cast down and to the left, his body tense against yours. “Robin,” he says, and his voice is husky, gentle as it is when he inflicts the greatest of hurt, “it’s dangerous.” The words are meant as a refusal, a rejection of the desire that sings sharp between you. And true, this is the most public of any that you’ve cornered him.
But that’s not all you hear.
It’s only when you meet Guy’s eyes yourself that you know and understand the truth: out of the two of you, Guy of Gisborne is the first one to show weakness.
There’s a tempest within him, held from you by a thin, vulnerable line; I want you, you read in him, you torment me, and you realize that your capacity for kindness is, perhaps, only matched by an equal capacity for cruelty.
You could reassure him that you would know if any of your band approached. That the guards are far away, that you and he are alone in the forest. But reassurance, now, would be mockery.
The dagger is in your hand almost before you decide; the tip of it pricks into Guy’s neck, not quite hard enough to draw blood.
“Safer now?” you ask. And your first idea was to disguise what is between you, cloak it even so that another watching wouldn’t be able to see.
Guy exhales, short and fast. “Not in the least.”
And you understand exactly what he means.
~*~
He still stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the authority you would destroy. He has still taken everything from you - or at least calmly, enigmatically assisted another who would.
He is still cruel. It is not an affectation, it is a part of him, but his harshness is always calculated, and so is his gentility.
Yours is uncalculated; it always has been. You are impulsive. You are dashing, brave, heroic.
He is none of those.
But you know each other now, inside and out, in broken gasps and sweat-slick flesh. You’ve breathed in at the crook of his neck, in exhausted aftermath; he’s stayed awake, watching you, long after you pretend to fall asleep. You know what he’ll do before he does it, and, though he doesn’t let on, you assume he understands just as readily.
And yet, you remain free, and he remains caged.
But then, perhaps the beginning hasn’t happened yet.