I almost didn't write this one *^* It's only a small "fix", I have no idea how the rest of the film would pan out after this and I have completely disregarded any historical accuracy but I did it anyway!

Apparently I like writing Ian helping wounded Jim Howick characters

Fandom: Bill

Day 23 prompt: Fix-It Fic

He was just doing his job. Escort Christopher Marlowe into the Bull Inn to meet with the earl, and stand aside. Don't interfere.

Ian turned away as the earl took out the small pouch that he knew contained nothing but stones.

"Play first."

Marlowe placed a leatherbound scroll on the table and they made the exchange. Ian stayed quiet but glanced down as Marlowe opened the pouch and tipped the stones out.

"What the hell's this?"

"Your change," the king stepped out of hiding and Ian tensed up. He knew what was coming next, "Sir."

The king withdrew his knife and despite his best efforts to emotionally brace himself, Ian flinched as he drove it into Marlowe's abdomen.

"A pleasure doing business with you," the earl nodded and stood from his seat. How could he smile like that at such a scene? He easily breezed out of the door and Ian trailed behind him, hesitating.

He had to go. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from the horrific sight. He was all too familiar with the pain of being stabbed, but not like this. Not so deep and precise; not with the intention to kill.

"Ian!"

"Coming!"

With one last look back, Ian hurried out of the inn. What happened back there was wrong, he knew, but what could he do about it? The earl was leaving, and he had no choice but to follow. Sure, he had the skills needed to patch up a wound, and – he patted his pockets discreetly – he had the basic tools to do it but...

He let out a small groan of frustration and stopped. Croydon had already turned the corner and would be approaching his carriage. The king came sauntering out, looking satisfied, with his men in tow and brushed past him.

... They wouldn't notice if Ian got into the driver's seat a little bit late, would they?

It wasn't too hard to slip away.

He was surprised to see that Marlowe had made it out of the inn. He staggered out of the door, one hand gripping his side. Ian ran over to him, taking his arm.

"Mr Marlowe...!" he pulled him aside, being as gentle as possible, "Come here. I can help you."

He tried to get him to sit, but Marlowe swatted him off weakly, "No, no, I'll be fine..."

"I'm not so sure you will."

"Hold... Hold on," Marlowe squinted. His vision was beginning to blur, but he clearly recognised Ian, "You work for Croydon... don't you?"

"Yes, and if he finds I've disappeared, I don't even dare think what he and the king will do. Now, please, lay down...! Before you lose any more blood."

Marlowe steadied himself against the wall, slowly lowering himself to the ground with Ian's help. As he did, he frowned.

"Why are you doing this? I wasn't exactly kind to you when we last met."

Ian knelt down by his side, focused on unbuttoning his doublet and shirt, "Don't worry about that. Save your breath."

A hiss escaped Marlowe's lips as the wound was exposed to the cold night air. Ian dug inside his pockets and pulled out a spool of thread with a needle stuck through it, a vial of vinegar and a few scraps of gauze. After his stab wounds from the incident in the alley had recently reopened, thanks to Croydon's usual abuse, he had taken to carrying a few supplies around. He inspected the damage and wiped away what he could of the blood with a small piece of gauze, then dabbed some vinegar onto it. Every now and then, he glanced up just to make sure Marlowe was still conscious, but when it came time to thread the needle, the silence around them was suddenly broken by the creak of the carriage door opening and a distant yell.

"Ian!" he flinched at the sound of Croydon's voice, but at least he hadn't come looking for him yet, "Where the hell are you?"

"Won't be a moment, my lord!" Ian called back, trying to sound calm as he stitched up the wound, then he lowered his voice again, "I'm sorry I can't do anything more for you."

Marlowe opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the sound of footsteps thundering towards them. Fearing it may be Croydon, or worse, King Phillip, or worst, one of his assassins, Ian's head snapped up to look in the direction of the carriage. Nothing. Whoever it was, they were coming from the other way.

A familiar figure appeared.

"Chris, I am gonna-"

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Ian gasped in relief, "Mr Shakespeare...! Thank God it's you."

Shakespeare stood frozen, staring at his friend in shock.

"What on earth happened?"

Ian gulped. He didn't have time to explain. Marlowe's wound was sealed and the earl and king were waiting for him, but Marlowe just patted his arm.

"You've done enough," he smiled gratefully up at him, "Thank you. Bill can help me from here, you go."

Ian, so inexperienced with such kind words, could only return the smile, clamber to his feet, and run.

He had saved a life. He had done something good. If nothing else, he had that. He just hoped they would both be alright.