Fandom: Robin Hood (BBC)
Diclaimer: Own nada.
Author's Notes: A small multi-chaptered fic from a Guy (sometimes vasey) POV. Set after S2, will continue into S3.
Lay Down
(The Long Goodnight)
Chapter One
The sun set over the Holy Land, bleeding its amber glow out to sea, and over the vessel that carried the Sheriff back to wetter, safer climes. Vasey watched the tide take him away, gnashing his teeth against the clotted mess of his failure. From below deck, the scraping, pacing and wailing of Gisborne was aggravatingly audible. The crew aboard deck stayed eerily silent, unable to raise the atmosphere above the tune of Gisborne's grief. Vasey snarled at the sea spray, and paced.
The big booby had thrown himself headfirst into the abyss, there was little Vasey could do now but cultivate that darkness; nourish it as a new lifeline for Gisborne. Now that he'd gutted his last chance of deliverance.
A short distance from his foot, the wooden deck planks splintered upwards, providing a better outlet for the huffing and puffing of the big sad wolf below.
Spitting sharply, Vasey headed below deck, having had more than enough of this idiocy.
"Boatswain!" he roared. "Inform me if there's any change."
Once the Sheriff was down the ladder and out of earshot, the boatswain shrugged to the nearest deckhand and asked quizzically, "What sort of change is he expecting?"
The iron crate that Guy heaved upwards above his head in an impotent fury lodged itself in the upper ceiling of the ship, splitting planks and spraying splinters. He dislodged the crate by pulling at its lopped handles, and the metal lump came crashing down above his head. He crumpled to his knees, the fingers of one hand smashed beneath the crate. He pulled again at the crate, attacking the situation so blindly that the weight on his digits doubled. Panting at the struggle and the pain he could only dimly register, he noticed light flood the wrecked cabin, and the Sheriff's short, cloaked form stamp forward.
He slammed the door shut, bolted it, and the room returned to its former grey.
"Get up you great waste!" the Sheriff shrieked.
Guy looked up, eyes hooded, not so much in defiance as discovery: another target. The two men locked gazes and the sheriff recognised some lingering shadows of treachery in his eyes. With a grimace he put out one well placed foot and rammed it into Gisborne's face.
The man flung back heavily, his head cracking at the contact with the hull and his arm dislodging from the iron weight and falling to his side at an unnatural angle. He was out cold, and seemed grateful for it.
Vasey straightened his shoulders, his usual spirit returning for a moment.
Curiously, Gisborne's expression shifted from one if blank oblivion, to something vague, approaching fear, and misery. Uninterested, and happy for the peace, Vasey left the cabin.
Guy stood by the bow after dusk, his hands tight around the railing. The Sheriff's snores were the one noise disturbing his peace as they floated through the splintered deck.
"You should use a splint on those," she reprimanded him brightly. He felt her warm hand on his cold one, gently ease his clench from the railing and examine the injuries. He looked at her calmly, holding a breath.
"They'll heal," he replied finally.
"But they might heal crookedly," she argued. "Bandage them around small splints—this one…and this one. And don't use them until they've fully healed." She looked up at him expectantly, wheedling.
He looked down at the hand. His right hand, his sword hand. It was mottled purple and red. The knuckles were split and blood encrusted. The palm was cold.
He looked up at her. He could feel the immeasurable distance between them though she stood right beside him, viewing the glittering ocean. There was empty space where she stood, stagnant air where she took in great salty lungfuls in relish.
"I was kept below deck for the journey here," she told him. "I didn't see it."
"The sky?"
"The ocean. I've never seen it before."
He watched her watch the water. "Is it how you thought it would be?"
She smiled blithely, answerless. Empty space.
An ache began in his forearm, the twisted arm being brought forcibly to his attention. He looked up, blinking blearily, and saw the cracked hole above him. Through it, he glimpsed one star burning, tiny and distant, and a swish of skirt flying in the wind. Whether white or blood red he didn't decide.
Vasey came into the cabin later in a significantly better mood. He'd been plotting. His plans to regain power after this disaster were fresh and alive. He took off his fur and regarded Gisborne who was sitting on the opposite bed mat with his back to him.
"Take heart, Gisborne," he said softly, undressing. "We have a head start on Hood, if he ever comes back at all, that is, and I can fantasise," he groaned, tugging off one boot, "and on our return to England, we'll have a day or so to catch our breath. And then we shall see how England's fate is to be decided. And then we shall see."
Greedily content with his optimism and his plots, he came up behind Gisborne, and stopped. Looking down over the unresponsive shoulder, he saw Guy obediently bandaging his broken fingers, slowly, with small, roughly fashioned splints.
Vasey frowned with his lips pursed, then stepped backwards. He rolled his eyes, lay down on the thin mat, and did not comment.