FIC: Footwork
Mar. 20th, 2008 10:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sophieisgodI may have written Robin/Marian fic. I BLAME ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thedreamygirl AND ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
saythewordsthen. I am unable to resist a ficathon. It's a problem I have.
Title: Footwork
Author:sophieisgod
Written for:takemeto_utopia at the saythewordsthen ficathon.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine! If they were, they'd be better at kissing.
Word count: 938
Summary: Prompt: second person, present or future tense.
Author's Note: Thanks to Charlotte The Beta Goddess,lil_chanteuse
You will hear him before you see him, his footsteps crunching in the fallen leaves, hot and sweaty and resentful as you bend over the steaming pot. You will sense his slow approach, deliberately ignore him as you wipe your forehead with one grimy hand. Sighing, he will slope away, and it will only be a moment before you follow him, heart unable to be truly angry when he seems so dejected.
Calling his name, you will trudge up the hill, and when you stumble his hand will always be there, catching you, breaking your fall. His fingers will linger on your wrist, warm and familiar, but when you smile at him he will turn away, unseeing, lost in his own head. You won’t understand, frustration bubbling up in you like the inedible stew you’ve spent the past hour preparing.
His hands at your waist, years ago, as he lines you up with the target.
“Keep your feet firm,” he whispers, and you blush as his breath warms your cheek. Your arrow flies straight and true; triumphant, you fix him with your smile and laugh at the disbelief on his face.
“Surprised?” you taunt, eyebrow arched and smirk playing around the corners of your mouth; he seizes the moment and grabs you, lips against yours for a second full of sparks. He pulls away, and something hangs in the air between you as you try to focus, breathless and dizzy and hopeful. Before you can speak, he winks and sprints away, high on love and life and summer, light on his feet as always.
You watch him go, trying and failing to feel the appropriate sense of outrage. You grin, duck your head, pick up your bow from the grass where it fell, unnoticed.
Eventually, he will give up, slump against the base of a tree, and you will sink down beside him, unsure of what to say.
“Gisborne,” he will say, dully, and you will be silent still, will squeeze his arm a little tighter. There are only so many times you can have this conversation.
“He won’t stop looking for you. He’ll tear the villages apart.”
I’m here with you. I chose you. I can’t go back.
“We can’t hide forever, Robin,” softly, and he will be on his feet in a flash, fierce eyes and wounded pride.
“Is that what you think this is? Hiding? I am doing this for you, to protect you!”
A gasp of mocking disbelief, and you will match him glare for glare.
“I have no need for your protection, from Gisborne or from anyone else! I am perfectly capable -”
“Marian, I am only trying to -”
“Trying to what, Robin? Trying to shield me from the world? It’s a little late for that.”
You will laugh, a horrible, hollow sound, and you will feel this slipping away, beyond repair. For a moment, you won’t care. You will stand there, clear-eyed and defiant, but you won’t see him flinch as your words strike at the heart of him.
“I need to fight,” you will tell him as you turn away.
His laugh cuts through the silence, and you open one eye, attempt to look disdainful. You don’t stop, though; your movements are constant and fluid, your breathing slow and steady.
“You look ridiculous,” he says, circling you, grinning like the Devil. When you don’t respond, he draws closer, presses his nose to yours.
“Maaar-ian. Marian. Marian!” You ignore him, focus on your centre. Control.
He does look silly, though. His eyes are crossed. His breath is tickling your face.
Exasperated, you open both eyes and plant your hands on your hips, stare him down.
“You are a fool,” you say, but you can’t help the way your heart sings to see him, how your skin tingles at the closeness of him. You tilt your chin a little higher, a challenge in your smile.
“Then you are a fool for loving me,” he replies, and before you can pretend to gasp your indignation, he drops a kiss on your neck. Your eyes flutter closed, and he takes this opportunity to scoop you up in his arms, spinning you around and around until the trees blur.
Then he drops you, unceremoniously, to the ground, darts away into the trees, shouts over his shoulder. You chase after him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the pair of you slipping and sliding on the wet grass, utterly alive.
His shoulders will slump, traces of blood and sand engraved on his features.
“Fighting is not as glorious as you believe it to be, Marian.”
In three strides you will be at his side, lifting his chin until his eyes meet yours.
“I do not fight for glory. I want to help, Robin. I want to help those people. Our people.”
He will look away for a moment, shaking his head like he always does until you force his gaze back to yours, press an urgent, searching kiss against his lips. Trust me.
“I can do more, Robin,” and his hand will be in your hair now, one arm wrapped around your back, pulling you close against him.
“If I lose you…” He will trail off, unable to finish.
“You won’t,” you will whisper, fierce and certain, with all the confidence of the invincible.
This is your dance, this love and frustration and eager self-righteousness, as you push and pull and spin and fight, both of you keeping up the momentum, both of you afraid what would happen if you only stood still.
You taste freedom under the trees; your future is already writing itself.
thedreamygirl AND saythewordsthen. I am unable to resist a ficathon. It's a problem I have. Title: Footwork
Author:
sophieisgodWritten for:
takemeto_utopia at the saythewordsthen ficathon.Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine! If they were, they'd be better at kissing.
Word count: 938
Summary: Prompt: second person, present or future tense.
Author's Note: Thanks to Charlotte The Beta Goddess,
lil_chanteuse You will hear him before you see him, his footsteps crunching in the fallen leaves, hot and sweaty and resentful as you bend over the steaming pot. You will sense his slow approach, deliberately ignore him as you wipe your forehead with one grimy hand. Sighing, he will slope away, and it will only be a moment before you follow him, heart unable to be truly angry when he seems so dejected.
Calling his name, you will trudge up the hill, and when you stumble his hand will always be there, catching you, breaking your fall. His fingers will linger on your wrist, warm and familiar, but when you smile at him he will turn away, unseeing, lost in his own head. You won’t understand, frustration bubbling up in you like the inedible stew you’ve spent the past hour preparing.
His hands at your waist, years ago, as he lines you up with the target.
“Keep your feet firm,” he whispers, and you blush as his breath warms your cheek. Your arrow flies straight and true; triumphant, you fix him with your smile and laugh at the disbelief on his face.
“Surprised?” you taunt, eyebrow arched and smirk playing around the corners of your mouth; he seizes the moment and grabs you, lips against yours for a second full of sparks. He pulls away, and something hangs in the air between you as you try to focus, breathless and dizzy and hopeful. Before you can speak, he winks and sprints away, high on love and life and summer, light on his feet as always.
You watch him go, trying and failing to feel the appropriate sense of outrage. You grin, duck your head, pick up your bow from the grass where it fell, unnoticed.
Eventually, he will give up, slump against the base of a tree, and you will sink down beside him, unsure of what to say.
“Gisborne,” he will say, dully, and you will be silent still, will squeeze his arm a little tighter. There are only so many times you can have this conversation.
“He won’t stop looking for you. He’ll tear the villages apart.”
I’m here with you. I chose you. I can’t go back.
“We can’t hide forever, Robin,” softly, and he will be on his feet in a flash, fierce eyes and wounded pride.
“Is that what you think this is? Hiding? I am doing this for you, to protect you!”
A gasp of mocking disbelief, and you will match him glare for glare.
“I have no need for your protection, from Gisborne or from anyone else! I am perfectly capable -”
“Marian, I am only trying to -”
“Trying to what, Robin? Trying to shield me from the world? It’s a little late for that.”
You will laugh, a horrible, hollow sound, and you will feel this slipping away, beyond repair. For a moment, you won’t care. You will stand there, clear-eyed and defiant, but you won’t see him flinch as your words strike at the heart of him.
“I need to fight,” you will tell him as you turn away.
His laugh cuts through the silence, and you open one eye, attempt to look disdainful. You don’t stop, though; your movements are constant and fluid, your breathing slow and steady.
“You look ridiculous,” he says, circling you, grinning like the Devil. When you don’t respond, he draws closer, presses his nose to yours.
“Maaar-ian. Marian. Marian!” You ignore him, focus on your centre. Control.
He does look silly, though. His eyes are crossed. His breath is tickling your face.
Exasperated, you open both eyes and plant your hands on your hips, stare him down.
“You are a fool,” you say, but you can’t help the way your heart sings to see him, how your skin tingles at the closeness of him. You tilt your chin a little higher, a challenge in your smile.
“Then you are a fool for loving me,” he replies, and before you can pretend to gasp your indignation, he drops a kiss on your neck. Your eyes flutter closed, and he takes this opportunity to scoop you up in his arms, spinning you around and around until the trees blur.
Then he drops you, unceremoniously, to the ground, darts away into the trees, shouts over his shoulder. You chase after him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, the pair of you slipping and sliding on the wet grass, utterly alive.
His shoulders will slump, traces of blood and sand engraved on his features.
“Fighting is not as glorious as you believe it to be, Marian.”
In three strides you will be at his side, lifting his chin until his eyes meet yours.
“I do not fight for glory. I want to help, Robin. I want to help those people. Our people.”
He will look away for a moment, shaking his head like he always does until you force his gaze back to yours, press an urgent, searching kiss against his lips. Trust me.
“I can do more, Robin,” and his hand will be in your hair now, one arm wrapped around your back, pulling you close against him.
“If I lose you…” He will trail off, unable to finish.
“You won’t,” you will whisper, fierce and certain, with all the confidence of the invincible.
This is your dance, this love and frustration and eager self-righteousness, as you push and pull and spin and fight, both of you keeping up the momentum, both of you afraid what would happen if you only stood still.
You taste freedom under the trees; your future is already writing itself.
