Title: Brother Hood
Pairing: Gen
Summary: The story of three brothers who survived… only to be annoyingly stuck with each other. Had fate been more kind, or perhaps more cruel, they would have gotten just this.
Alternate series ending wherein certain deaths are prevented but still carry lasting effects.
Rating: K+

I changed the position, depth, and severity of Guy's wounds. Deal with it. But come on. This fic couldn't happen without it. And yes, Isabella did stab Guy with her dagger, so he would have been poisoned too. But can we just… okay? We'll pretend Robin hogged all the poison.

The room was stifling and oppressive. It might as well have housed a mourned corpse for all the joy that was to be found inside. However, the occupant on the bed, still and pale, was not dead— not yet.

Archer walked the room, back and forth, side to side, wide circles. He touched expensive things and quelled the desire to take them, to slide even the smallest of them into his pocket. It was his vague understanding that he would be stealing from his brother, one or the other, and while the thought might not have bothered him at any other time, to take from men on their deathbeds, with one or both feet in the grave, was something that smothered even his roguish nature.

He avoided the one loose floorboard in the room, already having memorized its placement in the day he had been there. He had been pacing too much perhaps.

The only other noise outside of his boots on the wooden floor was the snores of Much, alternating between quiet breaths and a croak loud enough to wake the dead. Though that wasn't entirely true, as it could not rouse even the half-dead.

Much sat in a chair in the corner and had only fallen asleep an hour previously, not of his own volition. He was exhausted. After the battle of the previous day and his constant vigil over his master, it was unsurprising. Archer respected the loyalty in the man he barely knew, though it was a concept he shared equal familiarity to. Loyalty had never been very present in his life, in either direction. He had never given it and, as a result, did not receive it. A knife in his back was as familiar as an embrace to others. Much, however, seemed as loyal as a dog and twice as friendly— underneath his moaning and whining, that was.

Archer approached the bed, a foreboding pedestal of sickness from which Death would not seem an unexpected visitor. Robin laid upon it, a modest white sheet raised to his chin and doing nothing to dispel his corpselike appearance. Anything more would have been oppressive though. His fever was high, and the cool rags Much had placed and replaced like clockwork did little to help. It seemed the poison would indeed claim his life.

"Marian," his brother called, voice hoarse and dry, brittle as autumn leaves. "Marian." Robin raised his hand, and it hovered an inch or so from the bed. Archer wondered if what he saw was a sign of consciousness or a feverish nightmare. "Marian." The hand dropped.

Nightmare.

Tuck had told them to expect the worst from Robin's condition, and Archer had accepted the suggestion as soon as it came from the man's lips. It was a miracle he had managed to hold on as long as he had, Tuck said. The physician agreed. Like medicines, it was explained, poisons affected each man differently. Robin could have died in an hour. He did not. He could have died in a day. He did not. He could still die before the week was out. He most likely would. Archer would probably lose his brother. And Robin was the one who stood the better chance at survival.

Guy rested on a cot downstairs. He alone could have saved Robin, revealed what poison he had given, allowed them to make some crude— probably ineffective— antidote. He was silent as the grave, though, and halfway there.

Tuck and the physician had said that there was nothing more that could be done for either of them. Their bodies had sustained them for a day and, God willing, would drag them through it. For the onlookers (members of Robin's gang or grateful men and women who brought food and prayers), it meant a lot of waiting.

Archer hated the waiting. It created a uselessness in him that had not previously been there. The feeling was new and most definitely unwelcome.

"Marian," Robin called again.

Archer left the room.

It was late at night, but a servant still intercepted him at the bottom of the stairs, asking if he needed anything. Archer liked the concept of servants, had always fancied the idea of being rich enough to have some of his own one day. These people, however, felt more like companions, and giving them orders made him feel guilty. He supposed it was the Robin Hood mentality, another thing he did not like.

There was a fire crackling quietly in the hearth, though it benefited only one. Robin's men had crept off to bed. Kate had left Locksley Manor entirely and returned to her own home. Therefore only Guy was around to feel its warmth. His chilled skin seemed to need it, so Archer threw another log or two onto the flame.

"Cold, brother?" he asked softly, making conversation with himself to stave off his feeling of helplessness. "Come closer to the fire." Archer grabbed an edge of the bed and dragged it across the floor with one long, sustained screech. "Better?"

He sat in a chair by the fire, pretending the flitting flame had won his attention but actually watching his brother from the corner of his eye.

"Think you're so entitled," Archer muttered after a moment. His fingers threaded together and he sank in his seat. "Some noble, a knight. Why should I care if you live or die?" His gaze turned keenly to Guy, as though expecting an answer. "Don't think I haven't heard what the people think of you, Sir Guy of Gisborne. Someone threw a rock at me just for carrying you." His finger tapped a small cut on his forehead. "That actually really hurt, you know." Archer turned away again, almost convincing himself that the flame was more interesting than an unconscious dying man. "What have you got to live for? Nothing." He regretted his words. They fell on deaf ears, yet still he felt judged. "I'm not supposed to get my hopes up over you, Robin either. I decided I wouldn't."

Minutes fled past unceasingly. The silence was unbearable. It seemed like a plague that had descended upon the house, invading every corner, choking the life from every nook. He spoke again just to shut it out, picking up the thread of conversation he had dropped. "But if you could…" He paused, feeling ridiculous. "If you could pull through… well, I wouldn't exactly hate it." Allowing himself that small shred of hope appeared to do wonders for his nerves. An insignificant amount of weight pulled away him. But it was something.

He watched the fire for a good half-hour longer, but the sun would be up soon. He needed to get some rest. Archer stood and laid a hand on Guy's forehead. It was still cold, so he grabbed a quilt from a chest and draped it over the man.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a quietly uttered word: "Marian."

—

"Who's Marian?"

Archer wanted to laugh as one, then another, piece of silverware was dropped in surprise. It seemed a fairly severe reaction from the men he sat round the table with.

"Where did you—" Little John began, only to be interrupted by Much, who was taking a moment from his watch over Robin to have a bit of breakfast.

"Your brother's wife," he said, eyes downcast.

"Which one?" Archer asked with a snort and a grin. "They both call her name." He watched and waited for an answer, but neither John nor Much would so much as look at him. Archer turned his gaze to Tuck, but the man shook his head. Either he did not want to say or did not know. Perhaps he did know, but not enough to explain. "What happened?" he asked grimly.

"She was Robin's wife," John told him, his words a low growl and wholly laced with passive aggression. "Gisborne killed her."

No one volunteered any information after that, and Archer did not ask. Luckily patience came easy to him. He would find out, in time. He would find out many things regarding his brothers, whether from the men he ate with or the ones that fought for their lives. Archer cursed himself for getting his hopes up for their survival.

—

That evening, Guy awoke for a brief moment. He groaned in pain, and Archer leapt from his chair, dropping his sword and the whetstone he had been sharpening it with. The stairs were taken two at a time as he climbed them and retrieved Tuck from Robin's bedside.

When they came back down, Guy was writhing in distress and clawing at his wound, like a small child who thought he could end the ache by pulling at the injury and discarding it. Archer held down his hands, and Guy cried out again, a strained and sorrowful sound of torment.

"Tuck!" Archer yelled at the man beside him, not content with the, what he considered, leisurely pace Tuck opened a vial with.

"A moment, please," he replied, head and voice both surprisingly cool. He leaned down. "Drink this, Gisborne. Drink." He held the bottle to his mouth, but Guy shook his head. A broken and unwanted sob escaped his parched lips. "Guy, drink this. It's for pain, son." One of Archer's hands quit its hold and instead pried Guy's mouth open. Together, he and Tuck forced the potion on their unwilling patient.

Guy did not stay awake but a few moments after that. He fled into unconsciousness, leaving a trail of mutterings that could have been words but sounded more like inane whimpers.

Archer sank back into his seat, feeling exhausted despite the minimal energy he had exerted. He did not like playing nurse and found the job very taxing. "You get many difficult cases like him?" he questioned passively, making conversation.

"I don't get many cases at all," Tuck responded. "I am not a doctor by trade." He found a chair of his own and sat down between the two brothers, a watchful eye trained on Guy.

"Nah, you're just a jack of all trades, aren't you?"

"I try to be whatever the situation calls for," spoke Tuck. He stopped up the vial he had used, prepared to employ the other half when its moment came. "Gisborne, though, he does not trust easily. Before this is over I will most likely label him amongst my more… challenging patients."

Archer nodded and hummed in his throat.

—

The next morning, Archer left. It wasn't forever. It wasn't even for a day. However, he found the manor to be as oppressive as a hanging and as constricting as the noose that came with it. He volunteered to retrieve supplies and possessions that had been left in Robin's camp. No one wanted to leave and collect them, while Archer could think of nothing but.

The day was nearly gone when he finally found the camp and allowed his feet to drag him in the direction of the house. Even then he leisurely wasted time and conversed with several villagers, placing a bet with a few that he was just as good of a shot with the bow-and-arrow as Robin Hood. He almost felt bad taking their money.

When he could at last be bothered to return to Locksley Manor, Much met him on the road, running at a swift pace. At first, Archer prepared for the worst news possible, but as the man drew nearer, he saw that Much wore not a mask of grief, but a smile.

"Fever," Much panted, doubled in half and breathing heavily. "Fever broke." His head sagged between his shoulders as he tried to catch his breath.

"Good," was the only word Archer could think to say. What else was there?

The day after, Robin opened his eyes. He looked around and took in the sight of Archer, Much, and John. A confused expression made itself known on his face, but when he opened his mouth to ask a question, only a harsh rasp came out. Much was quick to assist with a cup of water.

They waited anxiously for him to say something, but he immediately slipped away once more.

—

Guy showed signs of waking again, but Archer had left and missed most of them. When he returned, it was to see Tuck sitting closely beside his brother and watching him vigilantly. Tuck was the only one who cared after Guy, outside of Archer himself and one servant. It wasn't necessarily that the others wished him harm at that point, however Robin took an obvious priority.

Archer fell into a seat beside the man and watched Guy's prostrate form. He released sporadic, distressed groans, some drawn out into hoarse cries. His hands twitched at his side and his eyes scrunched and creased with reluctance— whether it was over opening them or fighting to keep them closed, it could not be guessed.

Another minute passed, its seconds marching by. Guy's eyes opened abruptly. It was as though he had finally won, or lost, whatever battle he had fought and decided to no longer delay matters. The blue of his eye was outdone by its black in the darkened room. His large pupils wandered tiredly, taking in as much as he could. He saw Tuck and blinked. He saw Archer and smiled.

"Brother," Guy whispered. He pulled his neck off the pillow and cried at the sting caused from the meager bit of exertion.

"Shh, Sir Guy," Tuck murmured in a hushed voice, ushering him back down. "Do not try to get up."

"Get up?" he croaked, throat raw. "I'm far too tired for that. I can't even move my legs." His eyes narrowed as he looked at the monk. "What have you given me?" he asked with suspicion.

"Something for the pain, nothing more," Tuck responded. His focus turned from the man and retreated back inside his own head. He patted Guy on the shoulder and rose from his chair, intent on making himself look busy with other matters around the nearby table.

Archer stood as well, but only to slip himself into Tuck's abandoned seat at the head of Guy's cot. "So you finally decided to wake up?"

"How long have I been out?" Guy was quick to question. He cast his gaze to the window and saw that it was late afternoon.

"Four… days, I suppose," Archer thought as he reflected over each day of monotony.

Guy seemed troubled by something but looked equally disinclined to voice the matter aloud. Instead he laid and took in many wheezing breaths, each sounding as painful as its predecessor. He would not speak. Long wooden beams overhead appeared to be his primary concern. He stared at them unwaveringly.

Archer's hand hovered tentatively above him before finally dropping down and ruffling his matted hair. "Rest," he ordered. "Get better." He made to stand up. Guy grabbed his wrist, clutching it weakly. The grip held nothing of the fierce strength that had been present only days before.

"Robin," he said quietly, though it was as good as any question.

"Upstairs," Archer answered, pointing above. "He's not too bad off, not good either."

Guy nodded slightly, barely more than a blink of the eyes. The answer satisfied him. He did not ask after his own wellbeing. For the moment, he was alive and awake. Little else seemed to matter.

Archer walked to where Tuck stood. He nodded in Guy's direction and grinned. "That's a good sign, yeah? Awake and alert."

Tuck did not look as content as he. Gravely, he shook his head and pulled Archer further away from Guy's sickbed. "I need you to distract him," he said.

"Why?" Archer watched Guy from across the room. His eyes struggled to stay open, but it was a battle he was winning.

"No," said Tuck, shaking his head, "I'd much rather give you news than supposition. Just keep his eyes drawn to you and off of me. I assure you I mean him no harm."

"All right then," Archer said. His head bobbed in a halfhearted nod. "I will."

He sauntered back over to Guy. Normally he took to a con like a fish to water, but this diversion business made him uneasy. He sat down and drummed his fingers along the wooden frame of Guy's cot. The man raised a slightly annoyed eyebrow at him but said nothing.

Archer saw Tuck approach out of the corner of his eye and decided he had best begin a distracting line of conversation. "I've been out in the village," he reported, attempting to keep his words trivial and untroubling. "Nice group of folks. Not too good at winning bets though." He patted the coin purse he had tied to his belt. Guy scoffed, but a slight smirk betrayed his amusement. "Unseasonably nice these past few days. Well, there was that one bit of rain. Overall though, I think you've missed the last warm days before winter starts setting in."

Guy turned his head at a leisurely pace— though perhaps it was as quick as he could— and looked at Archer. "Are you—" He coughed. "Are you really going to sit there and discuss the weather with me?" he asked incredulously.

Archer chuckled and held up a hand in sign of surrender. The banality of his conversation had not gone unnoticed by the man. "What would you like to talk about then?"

"Not the weather," Guy answered, closing his eyes for a moment.

From the corner of his eye, Archer watched Tuck. It wasn't much, not enough to even fathom what he was doing, but giving the monk any more attention ran the risk of drawing Guy's eye. "Robin seems to be doing better than expected." He took a guess that Guy was more worried over his former enemy than he was willing to let on. A nod was all the permission Archer needed to continue. "Bit touch and go, especially since you were the only one who knew the poison. But he's done all right without the proper antidote. His fever broke yesterday. Physician thinks he'll pull through."

"Too stubborn to die," Guy muttered with slight mirth.

"Look who's talking," Archer countered. It won a smile from Guy, an honest one. He noticed then that Tuck had gone and could not dispel the want to follow and get an answer. "I'll let you rest then," he said, patting Guy on the shoulder before standing. "If you need anything, just yell, bang on the wall, something. I might not come, but I'm sure someone will. I'm almost certain."

He caught up to Tuck just inside the front door, but the man would not hear his question. "Not here," he whispered. "Outside."

They walked out into the space that flattery might have called a courtyard. Archer leaned against a ladder and crossed his arms. "Well?" he prompted.

Tuck reached into his sleeve and pulled out a large, blunt needle. "I stuck this," he said, "into each of his feet."

Archer tried to brush the peculiarity of that away. "And?"

"He felt it not," the man responded gravely.

"What do you mean to say?" Archer asked, pushing off the ladder to stand straight. Clearly it was a serious matter up for discussion. "How?"

"It certainly isn't leprosy or infection. I believe this was the doing of steel upon his body," Tuck told him, though he appeared reluctant to do so, to admit the fact. He ran a tired hand down his face. "He may have lost the use of his legs."

Archer sighed heavily. "A cripple, you mean."

"Yes." Tuck's boots kicked dirt around as he paced. A thin cloud followed his steps. "It could have happened upon being dealt the blow," he thought aloud. "It could have come from his being moved around so much after the injury. Either way…" His words fell off into a heavy silence. The why of it did not matter. He could speak of possible causes all day long, yet still it would not change the outcome.

"What do we tell him?" Archer asked resignedly. He had never been one for empathy, and that moment was no exception. Putting himself in Guy's place, imaging being the one to receive such news, was a horrible and sickening thought. He would not grant it access to his mind.

"The truth," Tuck said. He nodded resolutely, hiding away the uncertainty on his face. "Concealing it will not help him."

Archer felt like a coward as he followed the monk back into the house. The sun stayed behind and threw their likenesses along the floors and wall. Tuck walked in his mighty shadow, yet Archer felt small and afraid. Was it necessary to give Guy the news at that very moment? It was. Of course it was. Dragging matters out would help no one.

Though it might make Archer feel better. He wanted to leave, to quit the looming unpleasantness, but surely Guy would want him there.

Would he though? Archer knew practically nothing about the man. What he did know seemed to suggest he would not want an audience to his misfortune.

Archer took one step back.

Guy looked at him then, craning his neck to see his brother around Tuck's large form. He wore a smile that was bittersweet. If he did not know better, Archer might have imagined he was already aware of the facts. But he couldn't have been. Perhaps his discomfort showed more than he thought, and Guy was trying to reassure him.

No, he would not abandon his brother.

Archer stood at the head of Guy's bed, leaning against the staircase with a hand resting on a step. Guy could not see him without twisting his neck, but he knew he was there. Archer would be a presence, ready in whatever way Guy may need him, even if that be not at all.

"Sir Guy," Tuck spoke as he sat down. Guy looked at the man, but his eyes were heavy and clouded. His short time awake already seemed to be wearing on him.

"What?" Guy asked, voice tired and short.

"It's regarding your injury, I'm afraid."

Guy's eyes widened just a hair. "I'm dying," he guessed, though the words came out as a statement. He seemed apathetic to his fate, every bit the man who had stared down Death and resigned himself to it so many times.

"No, my son," Tuck said. He reached a hand out to take one of Guy's in a symbol of reassurance but thought better of it. Instead his palm pressed roughly into the fabric covering his own knee. "I have faith you shall live. But what the blades have done, or undone, is something you may have a hard time accepting."

"Spit it out already," Guy ordered, his patience thinning.

"There's been a heavy damage done inside. Guy, I believe…" He trailed off into silence before taking a breath and continuing with strong, concise words. "You have lost the use of your legs."

There was an expected, yet unique, form of disbelief that passed over Guy's stoic face, barely perceived. His eyebrows twitched and shifted much like waves on the beach, rushing in from concentration, back with acknowledgement.

He heard the words the monk told him. He regarded them. He rolled each syllable over in his mind until they were reduced to nothing more than the brittle hulls of their former selves.

He did not accept the words.

Guy's face contorted in a piteous display, a wasted effort obvious in him as he concentrated on trying to move limbs that had betrayed him.

"I have done a sensory test. You cannot feel or move them, Sir Guy," Tuck repeated. His hands hovered over Guy, ready to calm and subdue the man if he should get out of hand. "There is—"

"Shut it," Guy growled crossly. He dug his fingers into the corner of his blanket and cast it away, revealing a bandaged chest and waist. A pained grunt ripped through him as he picked up his head and looked desperately at his legs, as though seeing them would restore his control. Seeing them would bring the traitorous limbs back under his command.

It did not.

His head dropped heavily back onto the pillow. He breathed deeply and lay still, either exhausted from his small effort or plotting his next move. Tuck tried to speak again, but Guy would not hear what he had to say. He quieted him and leaned forward again, chin meeting his chest but his body moved no further than that.

Wanting to put an end to his brother's defiant mistrust, Archer leaned down and offered his assistance. He put one hand to Guy's arm, the other to his shoulder, and helped him rise in the most painful act of sitting up Archer had ever witnessed. Were he a lesser man, Archer was sure Guy may have cried.

Sitting as far forward as his wounds would allow, Guy took a better look at his legs, willing them to move, pleading with them to so much as twitch. They did not. He reached out and jabbed one harshly with his index finger. The despairing half-sob that escaped unbidden from his throat made it obvious that he had not felt it.

"Put me down." Guy's voice was as hard and even as polished stone. "Put me down!" he yelled when Archer did not let him fall fast enough.

He laid staring at the ceiling, body still but for the eyes darting back and forth as quickly as his mind must have been.

"We have no way of knowing the full extent of the damage," Tuck stated, finally able to without Guy cutting him off. "This sort of injury, I've seen it before. Not all of them last forever. You may one day wake up feeling perfectly normal." He paused briefly, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower and much more serious. "I must caution you to accept fate as it is though. Do not get your hopes up."

Guy was quiet for a long while. A stranger to the scene might have sworn he had fallen asleep with his eyes open. At last he said, "Leave me."

Tuck looked to Archer imploringly, who only shrugged his shoulders. Knowing Guy most likely did need a moment alone to think, the monk allowed him his demand. He left the room in search of some other way the manor could have use of him.

Archer stood uneasily on his feet. It was unclear if he had been included in the man's order to go away. He wanted nothing more than to leave— the room, the house, the village; he didn't care which. The whole environment was stifling, and he felt like a formerly unbound bird being held underwater.

Against his judgment and his want, Archer knelt beside the bed. Guy would not look at him. He reached out with a consoling hand— impulsive words of comfort undoubtedly soon to follow— but Guy smacked it away with surprising strength. "I said leave," he sneered. His eyes remained focused on the ceiling. His face was tight with anger. A small degree of worry and fear may have been present as well, but who was Archer to comment on the validity of that?

He left, not needing to be told a third time.