A little Plunkett and Macleane drabble because I couldn't stop thinking of this silly little scene that came to me out of nowhere, and this is the only way.
REPOSTING THIS BECAUSE BEEE TOLD ME TO. Apologies for historical inaccuracies and any other not good portions. Also "YOLO", apparently.
The continuing adventures of the fleeing trio of Plunkett, Macleane, and Gibson we saw at the end of the film.
PG-13ish, blood and bodily harm, vague suggestions of eventual Plunkett/Rebeccah and/or possibly Plunkett/Rebeccah/Macleane. I kind of want to steer towards the latter if I can get this going again.
-------
"How are you feeling?"
Plunkett jerked awake as Rebecca entered the cabin, one hand clutching for his knife, the other for his pistol. He found neither, but the stabbing spasm in his side reminded him that such sudden movements were still unwise. He gritted his teeth, forced a smile.
"Better," he said, uneasy as she sat on the bunk beside him. He laid a hand over the bandages as she bent over him. She had fussed since they'd boarded the ship. There had been the row over her passage, Plunkett had only secured two tickets, but Rebecca had been clever enough to stow the better part of her late uncle's fortune in a hollow by the roadside - they'd claimed it almost as soon as they'd cleared the sewers. The extra was not only enough to ensure her passage but to get them a cabin instead of three hammocks in the ship's hold.
They had barely set foot in the room when Plunkett collapsed. His leather gear, a custom job done by an old business acquaintance who'd still owed him a good deal when his apothecary had gone belly up, had slowed the slug down considerably, but shot was still shot.
Plunkett remembered very little of the first week of the voyage, but he remembered hazily seeing Macleane and Rebecca bent over him as he lay stripped to the waist and listened to his own voice give out careful instructions.
"Higher up," he heard himself say. "You're too low."
Macleane laughed, dry and brittle. Plunkett watched as Rebecca passed a cloth over his face, but could not feel it. Her pretty face was drawn. "Pity it's not a ruby," Macleane said. "I'd have had it out by now."
"Yeah well, can't get nothing for lead, son, I'm afraid. Just as well I suppose." Macleane dug deeper into the wound in his side. Lights exploded in his head and everything dimmed for a moment. "Jesus Christ, your aim is fucking horrible. Go left. To your left you fucking idiot, before I pass out. I can't give you directions if I'm away with the fucking faeries."
Plunkett's partner swam into focus again. His hands were shaking. A little further left and Plunkett groaned and grasped a handful of Rebecca's gown. "There," he panted. The pain was getting bad. Very bad. "Got it."
Macleane looked ready to panic. "Rebecca, get the whiskey," he said.
She said nothing, but suddenly a shot of liquid fire was pooling in Plunkett's mouth and he gulped it down greedily. "One more for the road, love," he muttered, and another shot followed. "Thank you. Right. Pull it out slow. Go too fast and you'll lose it. You have to go in for it again and I'm getting you the captain's fucking compass so you won't get lost."
"Right. Okay. I've got it." In point of fact Macleane didn't look like he had anything. He had gone deathly pale. The bruises from the hangman's noose stood out in violent purple band around his throat.
Rebecca held a leather belt to Plunkett's face. He nodded and clamped it in his teeth. She surprised him then, unwinding his hand from her skirts and winding it around her own. He made a noise of protest and tried to shake her loose, but she tightened her grip.
"You won't hurt me," she said softly. "I'm made of stronger stuff."
Plunkett couldn't argue with that.
"Just look at me." The fire of the oil lamp danced in her eyes and Plunkett followed the flame. "Just keep your eyes on me and you'll be fine, I promise."
Macleane pulled. Plunkett's teeth gnashed the belt and his fingers tightened around Rebecca's. She did not flinch. She pressed her lips to his whitening knuckles and if Macleane saw that he didn't seem to care.
"Almost," he growled, trying desperately to steady shaking hands. "Almost there. Come on you blasted bitch....there!"
Plunkett spit out the leather strap and let out a hoarse cry as Macleane held up the bloodied lead slug.
"Congratulations," Macleane said shakily. "It's a boy."
"Plummy bugger," Plunkett breathed. Darkness swelled around him again, like a dream all that remained was the firelight in Rebecca’s eyes, and then even that was gone.
"The captain says we're making good time," Rebecca said, pulling his mind back to the present and shooing his hand away to get a look at his bandage. "James has been talking to him all morning. He's quite interested in our tale."
Plunkett winced as Rebecca pressed his side. "Wot, he's been telling stories again? Comparing wig sizes?"
She smiled, "No, not quite. I'm afraid there was a bit of a fuss when you collapsed. The captain, ship's captain, helped James get you into bed." There was a slight, unpleasant wet sound as the bandage was peeled back. "James has been slipping him extra coin to get at the medical stores. Sufficed to say he was curious of how you came to be shot."
"Jesus Christ," Plunkett growled through gritted teeth.
"I wouldn't worry too much, he seemed satisfied with James' story."
"More satisfied by his purse I wouldn't wonder. How's it look?"
Blue eyes fixed him. "Ghastly," she said after a moment. Plunkett didn't like being under that gaze. Hadn't liked it when he'd sat with his wounded arm in a sling and shoveling fruitcake in his mouth to keep from saying things he shouldn't. Didn't like it now, barely dressed and plus another bullet hole.
She smiled finally, her gaze losing some of its weight. "But I see no signs for worry. No pus, no red tendrils, no foul odor, and hardly any blood."
"Good." Plunkett let out a breath. "Very good."
"I should say." And that seemed all she had to say. She began dressing his wound again, Plunkett was unsure how many times this had been done while he was unconscious, but Rebecca seemed to have a deft hand at it.
He tried to think, he could remember coming on board, collapsing in the room, could remember James' surgical expedition, then a big gulf of nothing. After that it was like slowly swimming out of a haze as James and Rebecca floated by like pantomime ghosts. Today was the first day he could actually pick out of the mess.
"How long was I out?"
Hands froze in the act of unrolling linen. "You can't remember?"
He shook his head. "Not for a lack of trying, though."
"We boarded a week and a half ago, Mr. Plunkett. James and I tried to look after you, but by the second day you were feverish, the third day you were delirious. We had quite a row over whether or not the ship's doctor should be called." She smiled. "You'll be happy to know I won. I fetched the doctor myself."
The bandages back in place, Plunkett curled his arms protectively around his stomach. "Well, eh, I suppose I should be thanking you then."
The corner of Rebecca's mouth twitched. "Get some rest. We're expected at the captain's table as soon as you're well enough to attend." She slipped towards the door, and as she turned to him for a final word Plunkett realized she was trying very hard not to smile.
"We can discuss thanks when you're back on your feet."
