Title: Waiting.

Rating: 12

Pairing: Guy/Marian

Summary: Sir Guy of Gisbourne waited for no man…

Warnings: None.

Status of Fic: Completed one shot

Author's Note: A sequel to Seen in which I mentioned, tentatively, a pregnancy. Hope you like the outcome…

Disclaimer: I do not pretend to own anything Robin Hood-esque…but I would like to steal it…

Waiting

Sir Guy of Gisbourne had never been a particularly patient man.

Certainly when the need arose in battle, waiting to ambush his enemy, he could force his body to remain still and silent and hidden behind whichever cover he had deemed suitable.

Whilst saying his prayers and thanking God (as he did every morning when he rose and every evening before he lay himself down to sleep) for the woman who had consented to be his wife, her remaining loyalty to him, her smile, her eyes, the sweep of her brow when she was angry with him, the sting of her tongue when she scolded him, the taste of her kiss and the feel of her hands when she loved him. Then, when giving his thanks to the Good Lord, he could also coax his limbs into stillness.

But they were only ever fleeting moments in his stormy life.

More often than not he was impatient with his men when they failed to capture certain Outlaws that plagued Sherwood Forest. He was always anxious to leave Nottingham Castle and return home when the Sheriff decided to give him another of his lectures about how Gisbourne had become "soft" and had lost his "touch" all because of a "leper". He was most desperate to take those stairs of his home at Locksley Manor two at a time just to make his journey swifter and he was excruciatingly eager to enter his bedchamber, to find his wife already curled and sleeping soundly beneath the many blankets of their bed after a long hard day, to wake her with a kiss pressed just below her jaw line to the soft, warm skin of her neck so that he could take his turn loving her when those beautiful, iridescent blue eyes fluttered open and she smiled at the sight of him.

In short Sir Guy of Gisbourne waited for no man…

…And yet there he was, at that very moment, waiting. Waiting as he had been waiting all day since Marian had woken him with an elbow in his back and a curse down his ear that had made his eyebrows leap up his forehead in surprise.

Certainly he had never taught her such a word nor even used such a one in her presence.

And yet it had snapped forth from her lips, snarled and twisted with agony, much as the anguished cries and strained moans that had been escaping from behind their bedchamber door for most of that day.

"…Marian?" he had queried drowsily with a slur, rubbing at the tiredness in his eyes with a knuckle before he squinted back over his bare shoulder at her semi-recumbent form.

She had managed, just barely, after having stabbed his spine with her rather sharp and ruthlessly aimed elbow, to prop herself up against the headboard, one hand beside her pressed firmly against the straw filled mattress, the other clutching tentatively to her stomach. Beautifully full and rounded with child.

His child.

Often of a late night, when she had been unable to retreat into the dream-world of slumber (and so, thus, neither had he been permitted to) they had lain together in the pale moonlight and watched the fascinating display as their child kicked and turned and moved beneath her skin, sometimes even at the very sound of his voice as he spoke to Marian in a hushed but deep whisper.

"Are you well?" he had turned, fear gripping tightly in his chest. "Is something -"

"Don't just sit there and ask me ridiculous questions, Guy!" she had snapped back at him like an ill tempered mare, ice blue eyes flashing through the darkness of their room at him and suddenly he had understood. Saw the fear there in her stare and heard the panic in her words.

The baby was coming! And he had sprung from their warm bed like a man possessed, barely stopping long enough to pull on his trousers and shirt before he was hurtling out of the door, down the stairs, two at a time once again, and into the servants quarters.

It was lucky for him that a live-in midwife had long been decided upon, since they very first learned of her pregnancy.

Guy had insisted that the best midwife in all of Nottinghamshire be brought to live in Locksley Manor and that she was well paid for her troubles but his young wife had, of course, rebelled against the idea for a good many weeks as was her nature, refusing to have someone following her for every second of every day and be continually poked and prodded. It was only when he, exasperatedly, agreed to let her chose her own midwife (a local lady from Knighton who had delivered Marian herself into the world all of twenty summers ago) that Marian settled a little, allowing regular checks to be performed to ensure that both she and her unborn baby were healthy, and above all, safe.

The old woman, Eustace was her name, had risen from her own little cot in the room that she shared with the scullery maid and the cook, without any protest whatsoever. She barely blinked at the late hour or Guy suddenly bursting into the room, instead silencing the concerned words upon his lips with a raised hand and a short, sharp jerk of understanding from her head.

"Joan, Dear," she spoke to the maid who was still semi-sleeping beneath her warm coverlet and then clicked her tongue impatiently at the young girl's lack of response. "Quick, Girl! Don't dawdle. The babe is coming. I need hot water and plenty of it. Mary, get the blankets. And you," she rounded upon Guy, still stood in the doorway with his mouth open around a half formed sentence, with a speed that was remarkable in a woman so old. "Back up those stairs. Sharpish!"

To begin with Eustace had permitted him to remain in the master bedchamber, kneeling beside Marian, offering her his support, his whispered, breathless words of comfort, grasping one of her white knuckled hands between both of his…but when the enormity of events crashed over him suddenly, waking him from his semi-daze, when Marian's cries became altogether too pained for him to physically stand and the blood drained from his face faster than milk from an upended pail, she ushered him outside swiftly, with pursed lips and an impatient frown. She instructed him to sit, to place his head between his knees otherwise he would likely pass out and she sent the cook scuttling back down into the servant's quarters to wake Thornton and have him keep the Captain of the Sheriff's Guards company.

"Men," she had grumbled to herself in her croaking, creaking old voice. "Squeamish the lot of 'em." before she disappeared back into the chamber and shut the door firmly in Gisbourne's ashen face.

At that very moment Thornton allowed a chuckled to slip past his lips at the fearful look upon his Master's face, raising his work callused hand to smother it instantly when Guy's eyes, suddenly dark and flaming with the beginnings of an exhaustion and worry induced anger, turned upon him.

Thornton had done his duty, had roused himself, donned his clothes and ventured up into the manor house once more, only stopping off in the kitchen on his way to fix his master a soothing drink of hot water, lavender and honey, to calm his nerves. And, up until that moment, he had been sitting beside him in a companionable silence.

"Forgive me, My Lord," the older man offers, bowing his head to hide the warm smile still flitting across his features. "I am merely remembering the time, oh many, many years ago now, when I was in the very same position that you find yourself in this moment."

Guy struggles to stifle his irritation at the older man's amusement at his expense, to smooth it from his brow and eventually (at a rather agonized cry from his dear Marian and a stern command from the midwife) he finds himself turning his face back to his companion grim and concerned rather than annoyed. He does not have enough room in his mind, enough time to remain affronted.

"Was it this way for you, Thornton?" he queries at length, studying the laughter lines and deep creases that map out the hard yet happy life that his manservant has led. "Is it this way for every birth?"

Thornton smoothes a hand over his jaw line, wincing a little at Marian's unrecognisably weary voice tells Eustace that 'she can't do it anymore'.

"The first birth is always the hardest," he responds calmly and kindly, perhaps attempting to distract Guy from his constant worry about whatever could possibly be taking place behind the heavy, carved oak door of the bedchamber. "On both the mother and the father, I think." he risks another chuckle and this time Guy permit's his pursed lips, that hide fiercely clenched teeth, to twitch into an almost-smirk at their very corners. "I myself remember distinctly pacing the floor outside the birthing room for many an hour during my first daughter's delivery into this world…and then suddenly waking up staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling with the midwife trying to rouse me with all the smelling salts that she possessed!"

Guy cannot help but laugh at that, his apprehension fleeing for a fleeting moment as a smile breaks out across his face at the thought of the young Thornton passing out from sheer panic.

"She will be fine, Sir," Thornton ventures again, quite unexpectedly, placing his old, withered hand upon Guy's forearm in an attempt at reassurance. "Lady Marian is made of stronger stuff that any woman I have or ever likely will know."

"Lady Marian," Guy corrects, facing the door separating him from his wife and her current battle. "Is made of stronger stuff than most men I know, Thornton," he pauses, suddenly ashamed that he is sat outside and not in there, beside her, helping her through the struggle. "She is made of stronger stuff than I…"

"Nay, My Lord!" Thornton snorts, withdrawing his hand and the moment, almost as if he had been a father passing wisdom down unto his son, is gone, disappearing into the growing darkness around them. "She is merely strong in different ways to you and that is how a good marriage, a good love, is protected, kept alive. You protect her from her weaknesses and she you from yours."

Guy, not quite knowing what to make of such free and truthful talk from his head servant, merely peers at him curiously…until a cleared throat announces that they have both been so busy talking that they have failed to notice the silence about them and that Eustace is standing, hands on wide old hips, in the doorway.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your bonding, Gents. But I thought you'd like to know that you have a son, My Lord." the old midwife croaks with cheeky yet harmless mockery, wiping the back of her hand across her sweaty brow and he knows from the tired look upon her weather-beaten face that this labour has not been easy on her…or Marian.

Guy opens his mouth to speak and, finding his voice silenced by something, some emotion he can barely place, he coughs, clearing his throat, before continuing. Forcing his sluggish tongue to move.

"Can I see him? Can I see my wife?" his eyes, hard blue and wide hold hers for a long moment and it feels as if she is scrutinizing his soul until finally, with a nod of approval (as if she has seen his love for Marian deep within him) she lets him slip within his bedchamber leaving Thornton outside.

She lies there as pale and sweaty and exhausted, clasping a bundle of blankets close to her heart, as she had been that day before their wedding when he had not believe her father when he had stated that she was ill. Had it not been for the steady rise and fall of her chest and the flutter of eyelashes, revealing behind them tired pools of blue, he would have feared for her life but the slight nod of the midwife's head served to set his worries at bay fully.

"Marian?" his voice, deep and low draws her gaze to him completely and she sighs, opening her mouth to speak. "Shh, shh. It's only me." he reaches out, running a hand over her sweat drenched hair, smoothing back the strands from sticking to her forehead and cheeks and neck before he peers down in between the swaddling and into the tiny, pink, scrunched up face of his heir. His child. His son.

The boy's hair is jet black, like his own, smooth and downy, as soft as anything he has ever touched with his battle scarred hands. He has Marian's nose, and round cheeks flushed pink from crying and being forced into life.

Marian sighs again, more deeply this time, as she watches the interaction between father and son and she allows her eyes to slip closed again as Guy's hand returns to smooth over her cheek.

"You were brave, Marian." he states, carefully guarding against the awe that seeks to escape in his tone and a wide smile and Marian attempts to shrug her shoulders in some form of nonchalance, and yet only succeeds in making the baby whimper.

"The pain was worth it for something so precious," she replies, turning her face downwards, concentrating on settling the child. "I would do it all again in a heartbeat."

"Steady, Marian," Guy teases with a chuckle and a sly smirk, his hand now brushing back the hair from her face. "You've just given birth. There's time yet to give this little fellow some siblings."

She flushes a beautiful shade of crimson and the sight of that more healthy colour returning to her face lessens the still present concern in Guy's chest almost entirely.

And, as if in accordance with his father's notion that he be paid more attention, their son begins to wail, craving tending and love from his mother.

No. Sir Guy of Gisbourne waits for no man whatsoever…but for a woman and a boy, for his family, his wife and son, he will wait an eternity.

-oOo-

And there you have it. A tad rushed at the end, methinks, but I did scribble it down on the train home from work. Let me know what you reckon?