[fic] : robin hood (bbc)
Title: Conceptions
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1200 words
Characters: Guy/Annie, Sheriff
Summary: An exploration of the Guy/Annie sub-plot; how they met and what came of it. Set pre-season 1.
Parte the firste: Annie's first day, and the night of conception.
A/N: This has been in the works for a while. I wanted to try and explain why Guy acted as he did with the baby, and with Annie.
---
Prologue.
It is not quite morning when Guy reaches the forest. The leather of his breeches rubs against his hips, sticking out more than usual lately. He’s always been lean but lately he’s been all edges, skipping breakfast, too nervy to eat, snapping back at the Sheriff even.
The battlements, yesterday morning. His voice was lower and his replies brusquer even than usual. Vaysey had looked sideways at him, raised an eyebrow.
“Something rubbing at you, Gisborne?”
“No.”
“Nonsense. You’re been rough as a burr down an outlaw’s trousers.”
Guy’d not said anything. Narrowed his eyes. Looked away, over the battlements towards Knighton. The Sheriff was still grinning at his own wit.
“You can sulk all you like, Gisborne. Do I care? A clue: no…” and with that he’d walked away, leaving Guy alone, a cold black figure trapped among slabs of grey.
It is warmer in the clearing where Guy stops - tightening his knees to stop his horse. He’d almost walked. Quieter, less noticeable, maybe. But he’d never walked since he’d started working for the Sheriff. Always on horseback, always faster and taller and better off than the outlaws. Than Robin. So he’d decided to ride. He thought about things too much…
It was then that the baby woke up, and began to cry.
First day.
Annie was from a village three days south of Nottingham Castle. Her father was old, her mother dead many years back; from a weakening winter sickness and a difficult birth. As much as she wished she could stay at home with her father, she knew it would be better if she worked at the castle. Her father and her brother would look less thin, and she might even be able to bring them a little money from time to time. That first day of work, orders ran her all over the castle. Into the dining hall, the laundry room, the bedchambers - into Sir Guy’s bedchamber.
Annie had known in that moment what was in his mind. Sir Guy might never open his mouth, but like any man his eyes were easily read. She’d been in his chamber, bringing wood just chopped. It had been a quiet empty morning and she’d sung to fill it, snatches of ale songs echoing against the stone. And then Sir Guy had come through the door, usual half-scowl in place, and started to see a woman by his bed.
She’d apologised, curtseyed - fled. But in that moment as his eyes had flicked across her, she’d recognised the thoughts behind them. The way men often looked at women, seeing them both in that moment and in one yet to be realised.
It was nothing really, but she told Mary of it later, crouching by the dying embers of the kitchen fire. Mary, like her, was a serving-maid in Nottingham Castle.
“He had not a stitch on him?”
“No! Mary, you speak nothing but filth.”
“Well…I can’t say I wouldn’t wish for such a sight…” She nudged Annie and they both giggled.
“There are far fouler men,” agreed Annie.
“Far fouler,” said Mary. “Old Tom the privy-man who stinks of what he swims in. It’s worse than the Sheriff, and I’ve heard he’s none so fresh either.”
“Far poorer, too,” said Annie. “He has six shirts in that chest of his. Six! And here’s me with my skirt going into holes faster than I can mend it. I’ll have to wear my Sundays before long.” Mary looked appraisingly at her.
“You are pretty, you know, Annie. Not so much at present, with all the muck from the fires on you. But beneath it…”
Annie hadn’t known quite what to say. They’d gone on to talking about other things, and Sir Guy quite left her mind. Until a few days later, when she passed him in the corridor. He hadn’t noticed her, arms full of sheets, standing against the wall. But as he strode past, talking with a guard of outlaws and extra watchmen, she noticed how the flamelight sunk into his dark hair. How his black leather clung tight to his frame.
Mary had a point. He certainly looked none so bad from the back.
Banquet night.
A few days later she served him at dinner. Sir Robert of Sussex was the Sheriff’s guest, and as such she knew herself bound to serve without complaint. Even as he leered with little disguise, smirking up at her as she poured his ale. Guy - Sir Guy - didn’t see her pour his. He was watching someone across the room. The Lady Marian, Annie saw, though she left the banquet hall shortly after the last course. Before the men’s ale went too much to their heads. Not for the first time, Annie wished herself a lady, and able to better escape wandering sweaty hands.
The ale, the night and the men all wore on and on. The Sheriff could not be stopped from singing the Ballad of Wicked Vaysey. He stood wide-legged on the banquet table as his tuneless voice rang across the room. All the men joined in the refrain, banging their ale mugs on the table.
“For he’s wicked, wicked Vaysey
He’ll steal your wife and kick your baby
Though he’s wicked to the core
It makes the wenches scream for more!”
And every time the Sheriff would reply, “More? But of course…” and launch forth into another verse.
Annie sighed to see little Matthew, the kitchen boy, with an ale mug in his hand. The men round him were laughing and cheering him on, even as he made a face at the taste. He’d be sick before nightfall, she knew it.
“Gisborne, you woman,” slurred the Sheriff, “you’ve barely drunk anything. Stop sulking. Have a drink.” He lurched clumsily from tabletop to bench. Sir Robert belched. The Sheriff applauded.
“A wench’d drink more than you,” jeered Sir Robert. He grabbed for Annie, who stepped swiftly out of reach. “Oh, don’t be like that…”
Mary passed at exactly the wrong time and was caught instead - Annie shot her a sympathetic look. But Mary seemed quite unflustered, planting a kiss on Sir Robert’s balding head and even laughing at his ale-soaked attempts to charm her.
Annie caught Guy’s eye, and smiled at him. This only seemed to make matters worse; his scowl thinned and tightened.
“I’ll wager you couldn’t win the affection of a woman if you tried for it, Gisborne. Perhaps that leather of yours has roasted you out-of-use,” the Sheriff was growing red in the face with laughter. Sir Robert squeezed Mary, and she shrieked. He smirked, leeringly.
“If you were truly a man, you would not be able to endure such a space of time without a woman in your breeches,”
“They are so tight, perhaps there is not room for another?” said Mary. Sir Guy's expression grew tighter still. He caught Annie's eye again, and shifted in his seat.
Conception.
He called her to his room to bring logs for his fire, but as she reached it she heard the sound of one already blazing, flames crackling the wood.
There were no words, only brief looks of understanding and consent. They came together in a flurry of hands and britches. No slow lusting looks, only rushed pulling of laces and tugging at boots. Afterwards the room was as quiet as the first morning she saw him. Instead of the lark Annie thought she could hear a nightingale.
She looked across to tell Sir Guy but he was asleep. She pulled at his arm, nestling closer to his side, and in sleep he drew her closer to him. He smelled of sweat and ale, like she did.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1200 words
Characters: Guy/Annie, Sheriff
Summary: An exploration of the Guy/Annie sub-plot; how they met and what came of it. Set pre-season 1.
Parte the firste: Annie's first day, and the night of conception.
A/N: This has been in the works for a while. I wanted to try and explain why Guy acted as he did with the baby, and with Annie.
---
Prologue.
It is not quite morning when Guy reaches the forest. The leather of his breeches rubs against his hips, sticking out more than usual lately. He’s always been lean but lately he’s been all edges, skipping breakfast, too nervy to eat, snapping back at the Sheriff even.
The battlements, yesterday morning. His voice was lower and his replies brusquer even than usual. Vaysey had looked sideways at him, raised an eyebrow.
“Something rubbing at you, Gisborne?”
“No.”
“Nonsense. You’re been rough as a burr down an outlaw’s trousers.”
Guy’d not said anything. Narrowed his eyes. Looked away, over the battlements towards Knighton. The Sheriff was still grinning at his own wit.
“You can sulk all you like, Gisborne. Do I care? A clue: no…” and with that he’d walked away, leaving Guy alone, a cold black figure trapped among slabs of grey.
It is warmer in the clearing where Guy stops - tightening his knees to stop his horse. He’d almost walked. Quieter, less noticeable, maybe. But he’d never walked since he’d started working for the Sheriff. Always on horseback, always faster and taller and better off than the outlaws. Than Robin. So he’d decided to ride. He thought about things too much…
It was then that the baby woke up, and began to cry.
First day.
Annie was from a village three days south of Nottingham Castle. Her father was old, her mother dead many years back; from a weakening winter sickness and a difficult birth. As much as she wished she could stay at home with her father, she knew it would be better if she worked at the castle. Her father and her brother would look less thin, and she might even be able to bring them a little money from time to time. That first day of work, orders ran her all over the castle. Into the dining hall, the laundry room, the bedchambers - into Sir Guy’s bedchamber.
Annie had known in that moment what was in his mind. Sir Guy might never open his mouth, but like any man his eyes were easily read. She’d been in his chamber, bringing wood just chopped. It had been a quiet empty morning and she’d sung to fill it, snatches of ale songs echoing against the stone. And then Sir Guy had come through the door, usual half-scowl in place, and started to see a woman by his bed.
She’d apologised, curtseyed - fled. But in that moment as his eyes had flicked across her, she’d recognised the thoughts behind them. The way men often looked at women, seeing them both in that moment and in one yet to be realised.
It was nothing really, but she told Mary of it later, crouching by the dying embers of the kitchen fire. Mary, like her, was a serving-maid in Nottingham Castle.
“He had not a stitch on him?”
“No! Mary, you speak nothing but filth.”
“Well…I can’t say I wouldn’t wish for such a sight…” She nudged Annie and they both giggled.
“There are far fouler men,” agreed Annie.
“Far fouler,” said Mary. “Old Tom the privy-man who stinks of what he swims in. It’s worse than the Sheriff, and I’ve heard he’s none so fresh either.”
“Far poorer, too,” said Annie. “He has six shirts in that chest of his. Six! And here’s me with my skirt going into holes faster than I can mend it. I’ll have to wear my Sundays before long.” Mary looked appraisingly at her.
“You are pretty, you know, Annie. Not so much at present, with all the muck from the fires on you. But beneath it…”
Annie hadn’t known quite what to say. They’d gone on to talking about other things, and Sir Guy quite left her mind. Until a few days later, when she passed him in the corridor. He hadn’t noticed her, arms full of sheets, standing against the wall. But as he strode past, talking with a guard of outlaws and extra watchmen, she noticed how the flamelight sunk into his dark hair. How his black leather clung tight to his frame.
Mary had a point. He certainly looked none so bad from the back.
Banquet night.
A few days later she served him at dinner. Sir Robert of Sussex was the Sheriff’s guest, and as such she knew herself bound to serve without complaint. Even as he leered with little disguise, smirking up at her as she poured his ale. Guy - Sir Guy - didn’t see her pour his. He was watching someone across the room. The Lady Marian, Annie saw, though she left the banquet hall shortly after the last course. Before the men’s ale went too much to their heads. Not for the first time, Annie wished herself a lady, and able to better escape wandering sweaty hands.
The ale, the night and the men all wore on and on. The Sheriff could not be stopped from singing the Ballad of Wicked Vaysey. He stood wide-legged on the banquet table as his tuneless voice rang across the room. All the men joined in the refrain, banging their ale mugs on the table.
“For he’s wicked, wicked Vaysey
He’ll steal your wife and kick your baby
Though he’s wicked to the core
It makes the wenches scream for more!”
And every time the Sheriff would reply, “More? But of course…” and launch forth into another verse.
Annie sighed to see little Matthew, the kitchen boy, with an ale mug in his hand. The men round him were laughing and cheering him on, even as he made a face at the taste. He’d be sick before nightfall, she knew it.
“Gisborne, you woman,” slurred the Sheriff, “you’ve barely drunk anything. Stop sulking. Have a drink.” He lurched clumsily from tabletop to bench. Sir Robert belched. The Sheriff applauded.
“A wench’d drink more than you,” jeered Sir Robert. He grabbed for Annie, who stepped swiftly out of reach. “Oh, don’t be like that…”
Mary passed at exactly the wrong time and was caught instead - Annie shot her a sympathetic look. But Mary seemed quite unflustered, planting a kiss on Sir Robert’s balding head and even laughing at his ale-soaked attempts to charm her.
Annie caught Guy’s eye, and smiled at him. This only seemed to make matters worse; his scowl thinned and tightened.
“I’ll wager you couldn’t win the affection of a woman if you tried for it, Gisborne. Perhaps that leather of yours has roasted you out-of-use,” the Sheriff was growing red in the face with laughter. Sir Robert squeezed Mary, and she shrieked. He smirked, leeringly.
“If you were truly a man, you would not be able to endure such a space of time without a woman in your breeches,”
“They are so tight, perhaps there is not room for another?” said Mary. Sir Guy's expression grew tighter still. He caught Annie's eye again, and shifted in his seat.
Conception.
He called her to his room to bring logs for his fire, but as she reached it she heard the sound of one already blazing, flames crackling the wood.
There were no words, only brief looks of understanding and consent. They came together in a flurry of hands and britches. No slow lusting looks, only rushed pulling of laces and tugging at boots. Afterwards the room was as quiet as the first morning she saw him. Instead of the lark Annie thought she could hear a nightingale.
She looked across to tell Sir Guy but he was asleep. She pulled at his arm, nestling closer to his side, and in sleep he drew her closer to him. He smelled of sweat and ale, like she did.