[fic] : robin hood (bbc)
Title: Rough Hands
Rating: G
Word count: 800 words
Characters: Guy/Marian, Robin
Summary: Futurish AU ficlet. Marian's marriage to Guy is not as Robin hoped.
Disclaimer: Robin Hood is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement intended, no money being made.
A/N: A continuation of thepodsquad's lovely fic Crooked Shadow. Reposting for archival purposes.
He turns, and moves as silently as possible down the side of the house, running into the night as soon as his feet hit solid ground.
He doesn't look back. There is no longer any need.
---
Yet the next night finds him returning. His feet lead him towards Knighton, towards the manor house. Towards her. It has just slipped from dusk into dark, enough to hide him.
Downstairs, Marian is sitting alone at a table laid for two.
Robin can smell the meat through the window, almost taste its peppery tang. He remembers the same meal cooked for him once, remembers her hand on his, her whispering of forest herbs she'd added to his alone. Only Marian could have improved the taste of the sheriff's venison on an outlaw's tongue.
He stands outside the window near an hour, watching her grow restless. She rises to stand outside the door, hands against the curve and hollows of her hips, looking into the darkness. On the table the dinner stops steaming. She places a finger on the meat, sighs. Sits back down at the table, forehead in tired hands. Her knuckles are red, rougher-looking than the days when her hand was placed in Robin’s.
Autumn, almost winter, village fires making the air taste of ash and ice to come. Him still a boy, not knowing better, shying away from words that spoke too much, that gave too much of himself. Pulling himself up to her window by the bar he's only just found he can reach, to look inside for Marian. Calling softly to bring her to him, a smile in her eyes and lips. Kissing her there, hands together against the unfinished wood of the window. Her smooth and unmarred palm against his, blistered and nicked by endless practice with the sword, and with arrows.
Summer, by Marian's makeshift arrow target, across and beyond the fallow fields where her father can't see. Teaching Marian to shoot. Just taller than her now. He stands behind her, reaching around to rest his hands on hers, guiding her drawing back of the arrow, holding her steady. Later, lying curled together in the grass, Marian's hand has the beginning of a blister, and a nick where the arrow caught it.
And spring. That spring. When he placed an appeasing hand in hers only to have it pushed roughly away.
They both hear Guy approach. Robin's back stiffens. Marian straightens, moving to place the meat and vegetables over the fire. Guy says nothing at first, seating himself heavily by the fire. Some moments pass before he looks up at Marian.
"I thought you would be home earlier," she says. It is a question, not a scold.
"The sheriff," says Guy.
"The sheriff," she repeats.
"A council," says Guy. "He called a council about taxes. About raising them."
"Raising them?" says Marian, voice now with an indignant edge. "Raising them? But Guy, the villagers - the villagers can hardly pay what he asks now. What will they do if he raises - "
"I know, Marian." Guy interrupts her. "I know. You showed me. I remember."
"But nothing changes, Guy. Nothing changes." Frustration, grown to a pitch, makes her voice crack. Pulling off his gloves, he reaches out his hand to take hers. Robin expects her to push it away, but she does not. She stands by her husband, their hands linked, before the fire.
"Marian...I have tried. For you. The sheriff..." he tails off.
"What of him?" Robin knows that derisive tone of voice, remembers that she used it more often to scold him. In those days she still thought that he could be melded, his choices sometimes altered to her thinking. For a time they had been.
"He says I have changed. Today he said he would put me in skirts if I continued to be so soft."
Marian moves closer to Guy, her form a silhouette against the fire.
"You are not so soft yet."
"No..."
He pulls at her arm, pulls her down to sit next to him. One arm around her waist and the other resting with hers, in her lap. As she raises her head to look up at him, he kisses her. There is no hurry, no hunger to it. It is a slow kiss that whispers to Robin of familarity, of hours past and hours still to come.
It pulls at Robin to see it, pulls painfully at him. And yet he continues to watch, hoping to see her grow angry, hoping to see her grow sour and scolding. Resentment curdles his stomach, and twists his face into a scowl.
When she stands to take Guy's plate from the fire, there is a unbreathed sigh in her face. But it is not for Robin, grown cold and stiff-legged outside. It is for Guy, for Guy’s tired eyes and for the speed at which he eats meat toughened by reheating. It is Robin who sighs, sickened by his own bitterness.
Everything is a choice, everything we do.
So she said. So he knew, too late. And now her name tastes like ash in his mouth, a thousand moments and wishes burnt and blown away.
---
end.
Rating: G
Word count: 800 words
Characters: Guy/Marian, Robin
Summary: Futurish AU ficlet. Marian's marriage to Guy is not as Robin hoped.
Disclaimer: Robin Hood is copyright to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement intended, no money being made.
A/N: A continuation of thepodsquad's lovely fic Crooked Shadow. Reposting for archival purposes.
He turns, and moves as silently as possible down the side of the house, running into the night as soon as his feet hit solid ground.
He doesn't look back. There is no longer any need.
---
Yet the next night finds him returning. His feet lead him towards Knighton, towards the manor house. Towards her. It has just slipped from dusk into dark, enough to hide him.
Downstairs, Marian is sitting alone at a table laid for two.
Robin can smell the meat through the window, almost taste its peppery tang. He remembers the same meal cooked for him once, remembers her hand on his, her whispering of forest herbs she'd added to his alone. Only Marian could have improved the taste of the sheriff's venison on an outlaw's tongue.
He stands outside the window near an hour, watching her grow restless. She rises to stand outside the door, hands against the curve and hollows of her hips, looking into the darkness. On the table the dinner stops steaming. She places a finger on the meat, sighs. Sits back down at the table, forehead in tired hands. Her knuckles are red, rougher-looking than the days when her hand was placed in Robin’s.
Autumn, almost winter, village fires making the air taste of ash and ice to come. Him still a boy, not knowing better, shying away from words that spoke too much, that gave too much of himself. Pulling himself up to her window by the bar he's only just found he can reach, to look inside for Marian. Calling softly to bring her to him, a smile in her eyes and lips. Kissing her there, hands together against the unfinished wood of the window. Her smooth and unmarred palm against his, blistered and nicked by endless practice with the sword, and with arrows.
Summer, by Marian's makeshift arrow target, across and beyond the fallow fields where her father can't see. Teaching Marian to shoot. Just taller than her now. He stands behind her, reaching around to rest his hands on hers, guiding her drawing back of the arrow, holding her steady. Later, lying curled together in the grass, Marian's hand has the beginning of a blister, and a nick where the arrow caught it.
And spring. That spring. When he placed an appeasing hand in hers only to have it pushed roughly away.
They both hear Guy approach. Robin's back stiffens. Marian straightens, moving to place the meat and vegetables over the fire. Guy says nothing at first, seating himself heavily by the fire. Some moments pass before he looks up at Marian.
"I thought you would be home earlier," she says. It is a question, not a scold.
"The sheriff," says Guy.
"The sheriff," she repeats.
"A council," says Guy. "He called a council about taxes. About raising them."
"Raising them?" says Marian, voice now with an indignant edge. "Raising them? But Guy, the villagers - the villagers can hardly pay what he asks now. What will they do if he raises - "
"I know, Marian." Guy interrupts her. "I know. You showed me. I remember."
"But nothing changes, Guy. Nothing changes." Frustration, grown to a pitch, makes her voice crack. Pulling off his gloves, he reaches out his hand to take hers. Robin expects her to push it away, but she does not. She stands by her husband, their hands linked, before the fire.
"Marian...I have tried. For you. The sheriff..." he tails off.
"What of him?" Robin knows that derisive tone of voice, remembers that she used it more often to scold him. In those days she still thought that he could be melded, his choices sometimes altered to her thinking. For a time they had been.
"He says I have changed. Today he said he would put me in skirts if I continued to be so soft."
Marian moves closer to Guy, her form a silhouette against the fire.
"You are not so soft yet."
"No..."
He pulls at her arm, pulls her down to sit next to him. One arm around her waist and the other resting with hers, in her lap. As she raises her head to look up at him, he kisses her. There is no hurry, no hunger to it. It is a slow kiss that whispers to Robin of familarity, of hours past and hours still to come.
It pulls at Robin to see it, pulls painfully at him. And yet he continues to watch, hoping to see her grow angry, hoping to see her grow sour and scolding. Resentment curdles his stomach, and twists his face into a scowl.
When she stands to take Guy's plate from the fire, there is a unbreathed sigh in her face. But it is not for Robin, grown cold and stiff-legged outside. It is for Guy, for Guy’s tired eyes and for the speed at which he eats meat toughened by reheating. It is Robin who sighs, sickened by his own bitterness.
Everything is a choice, everything we do.
So she said. So he knew, too late. And now her name tastes like ash in his mouth, a thousand moments and wishes burnt and blown away.
---
end.