Weeks had passed since the Sheriff's provisions shed had been established in Nettlestone, meaning there were weeks that Robin Hood had a chance to plot a heist. It was much like leaked oil creeping towards a flame; only a matter of time before an incident.

"Would you relax," Robin chirped as he swept brush away from his face, "this will be a piece of cake!"

"I'm just saying, it could be a trap. Why isn't it a trap, Robin, hmm?"

"Because, Much, it just isn't."

"I'm not trying to be funny or nothin'," Allan butted in as he sped up to catch their heels, "but we have fallen into lots of traps."

"Would you all just shut up! Allan, go to your post!" The leader commanded as they pressed into the border of Nettlestone.

The bandits cloaked themselves within the edge of the forest until a congregation of citizens appeared to blend them into the crowd. Hood let out a cry like a nightingale to signal his group to flank forward, and they followed. Like clockwork each member achieved their task: Will and Allan sawed an opening into the rear of the building whilst Djaq and Marian provided a shrub to cover the hole the size of a crouching man. Robin and his partner staged lookout whilst Little John prepared for catastrophe. Once inside, Robin siphoned out monies and foods down a conveyor belt of outlaws until the back of the goods were taken. Inside remained the front façade of items so it did not look suspicious upon general glance. He slipped out and ensured his men, and women, had escaped without a trace into the leaves.

Robin adjusted his hood to keep out sharp sunlight and wandering eyes as he twisted down the road to a cottage. He tapped on the window, as was arranged, on the residence of his informant. As the knob clicked open he slipped inside and beamed. His ally may be old, but he was certainly useful. The short man's hair was mortally wounded in the combat against gray, the brown dissolving seemingly every minute. But his eyes were full of adventure.

"Edgar my friend, thank you. This is for your service and… for the next hint you have for us?" Robin retrieved a leather sack the size of his palm with golden rewards inside. Edgar patted his shoulders and let the rebel back to his bedroom where there were smuggled records of Vaisey's next movements of payment for Prince John's troops.

"These should cover the next two weeks, Robin. Please, take them with you."

"England is in your debt, my friend."

"England is on a sick bed, and only we have the apothecary to mend her." The informant assured the former Lord of Locksley. As he opened his mouth again, a rapping on the door came to boom the house with silence. Edgar paced himself to the door. "Sir Guy!" he announced loudly, hoping to send the hint that the outlaw needed to flee – now. Luckily, he did just that. Robin scooped up an armful of papers and wormed his way out the window before Gisborne even stepped foot inside.

"Is this a bad time?" Guy added, perhaps looking for an excuse to escape. He was so sure this was the right thing to do until he actually followed through. Now he felt his lungs become dragged down with cement. Robin peeked behind him, wary that there could be trouble for poor Edgar, but he did not see any guards or malice lingering with the man in black.

"Of course not," Edgar meekly donated a smile to his enemy, "Beatrice! You have a visitor!" He smeared away the sweat of his nervous palms as his daughter appeared from a back room, her hands dripping a thick red.

"Sir Guy!" she said with surprise creeping in. She raised an eyebrow when the only answer she got was astonishment on his behalf.

"You – you're hurt!" Gisborne frowned with his lips apart.

"What? No, no, no! I'm a cloth-dyer," Beatrice laughed heartily before grabbing a distressed towel. It certainly did not look clean, but her hands were as good as new before she approached him. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh," he said as his eyes drifted around. Scattered across the dirty ground was evidence of poverty and humility. Straw had been strewn through the halls; likely her dumb cat pulled it from the beds and trailed it everywhere. The most expensive things he could find were a large cooking pot, a cross above the door, and Beatrice's clothes. Likely she can bargain for them if she works alongside cloth makers. Guy was a whirlpool of feelings as he knew he should be disgusted. He was. But he also found a way to see her kindness over her simplicity. Maybe… no. He had come here to prove to himself the stupid whisper that urged him to return was for naught.

"Sir Guy?"

"Ah, yes. The barley tea. You, um, you had offered me tea. I thought, perchance, we could. But I see you are busy."

"Nonsense. I was just cleaning up." She grinned and began to work water from a barrel into the pot. With a small grunt the brunette knicked a flint and ignited the fire with which to heat the tea. Gisborne silently drifted towards a window. His skin felt itchy and shrunken, as if washed on the wrong cycle, and now his body ached to hatch free of it. He was uncomfortable here. A man of his nobility did not belong in this lowly home, nor did a man of his deeds deserve such kindness.

"You know," Beatrice remarked as she spooned out honey, "I have never offered tea to a man who waits for the rain to stop, then another three weeks to actually come drink it."

"You offer tea to a lot of men, then?"

"I believe that is my business." She coolly joked with a sly wickedness that could not hide her bubbling giggle. "But I will have you know all the men of Lancashire rave about it to this day."

"Is that so?" the corner of Guy's mouth curled up at her wit. It reminded him of the fire he craved in Marian. Beatrice motioned for him to sit at the small wooden table that was nestled against the wall and he complied, sliding his hand along the round edge of it as she sat across form him, two cups of barley tea in hand.

"I see you didn't drown in your shed." She mentioned after silent drinking. Guy mildly shook his head and went back to looking out the window. He was briefly distracted as Lucy the cat dragged herself across his leg on her way to the kitchen, then returned to himself. Beatrice twirled a finger through her auburn curls before bringing up anything else.

"So, Sir Guy, what is it you –"

"Why me?" he declared, shooting his blue eyes into her.

"What?"

"Why are you so kind to me? What do you want from it?" the muscles in his cheeks tightened as his jaw locked in hostility.

"I want nothing more than to be polite, why should that be a chore? You came to me freezing. Was I supposed to ignore you?"

"Yes."

"Well I guess I'm not allowed to have the neighbor boy help me garden vegetables then, either. I'm sorry to be decent to you. If you hate courtesy so much, then leave." She sat herself even straighter than before with a sourness across her. Her chest stood still with the swollen breath of being rustled. Gisborne, though, did not move nor did he release his stare; she could feel him watch each movement in her face.

"That was uncalled for," He eventually answered and let his eyes tumble down to what was left of his barley tea, "I just do not experience kindness such as yours from strangers." He immediately clammed back up after realizing he was about to show himself and speak freely, desperately clawing for more leather to bolster the hide between her and his human heart.

"Well, you should. I mean, it's just like in the bible with Zacchaeus, you know? Be kind to those who do wrong or have terrible jobs. People fear you for what you have to do, not who you are." She did not notice that his nod was insincere – what reason could Gisborne possibly find for picking up a bible or showing up to a church? He had no shroud of a clue what she was talking about, but he did feel guilty for her naivety. If anything, his job was much more angelic than who he was as man; everyone had a right to fear his sadism.

But perhaps that was his answer to the question that gnawed on his organs like a cancer for the past several days; the most pure solution to the complex and painfully heavy why he could not add up. Because she was naïve, that's why, she's a silly young girl without an idea about life in her head. Perhaps sheltered, perhaps stupid, but overall innocent. Now he could rest his weary mind.

His attention was snapped away when a sharp knock came to the front door. Beatrice glanced at Guy before opening it and was greeted by a minion dripping in chainmail.

"Hello, m'lady. I'm looking for Sir Guy of Gisborne."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Guy burned up in an instant as he took one large step to the porch. One of his workers had seen him in a moment of weakness, doing something stupid and out of character. Something maybe even defined as wrong.

"Sir Guy," he gave a small salute, "The Sheriff has asked for you to personally escort him around the provision sheds here and in Clun."

Edgar drifted into the room unnoticeably with a quill in hand. Both Beatrice and Gisborne had their back to him and did not notice his scramble for parchment to write on.

"He has already examined the shed in Locksley but does not feel it is safe to go to the others alone… excuse me?" The armored man broke off as he gently nudged Beatrice out of the way to address her father. Edgar stood up straight and smiled with the calmness of an elderly man. He slipped a cookbook out and added the sheet into the collection of foodstuffs, claiming it was nothing more than a pudding recipe he had just dreamt up.

"I believe if we use a different kind of lard it will perk the flavor right up, don't you, Beatrice?"

"Sir, I'd like to see the document." The guard nagged with the hint that his patience was melting. Guy, though, had a better plan. He snatched the book from Edgar and began tearing through pages.

"Why would you even discuss Sheriff's orders in public, you moronic bastard?" He growled until coming across an interesting sheet with notes scribbled and hasty maps sketched out. "What is this?"

"I don't know, first time I'm seeing it." Edgar lied with a lighthearted tone.

"Sir Guy," the guard withdrew a dagger, "it has all the travel routes of Prince John's gold on it."

"Father?" Beatrice whispered.

"This is not good for either of you." Gisborne's man snarled as he roughly grabbed Edgar by the collar. He called out to other soldiers outside as Beatrice's crystal green eyes welled up with tears. It reminded Guy of how the lush green grass was drowned under so much rain only weeks ago. His anger tuned out her desperate cries to her father, demanding it not be true.

Without a word Gisborne took one of his henchman's pairs of handcuffs, worn down and stained with fear and resistance, and clasped it onto Beatrice's left wrist. She shot shocked bewilderment from her gaze to his, and he never looked away. She was sobbing, breaking, confused. She was also beautiful, and probably innocent. As the dark scenes of arrest Guy is so accustomed to surrounded them he knew he could not let this happen to her. His prison is hell, it changes people, scars them with melted flesh and mutated hearts. He would not let himself hurt her. Not like he did Marian. Not again.