the Dalaverse

I have yet more "Robin Hood" fic. Hey, I can't help it if the last episode was actually really good and I've suddenly developed a crush on Will Scarlett, okay? Spoilers for S2 up through 2.05 ('Dunking and Diving' - thanks, show ::rolls eyes::). Although if you're unfamiliar with the show, it'll just translate to: 'See pretty boys kiss. See pretty boys angst. Angst, Allan/Will, angst!" (+ brief appearance of Marian being her kickass self)



Pay the Devil


On the first night, he went back to the tavern where everything had ended. He didn’t mean to, but the sun was sinking beneath the treetops of the forest and the air was turning from the sweet-smelling crispness of autumn to the blank chill of winter. And he had nowhere else to go.

The barmaid was a practical sort of girl, but as she’d taken a bit of a shine to him, she gave him back Gisborne’s last purse. He used it on whiskey and on the room she guided his stumbling feet to when the moon was high. In the morning she was gone, taking the rest of the silver with her. He pressed his hands to his aching head and was content not to remember most of it.

On the second night, he was wandering through the market an hour before sunset when a stroke of luck stopped him in his tracks. Marian was picking through some calico in a nearby stall, shooting dirty looks over her shoulder at her bored guardsman. For one wild moment of hope, he thought that Robin or one of them must be nearby – but upon scanning the thin crowd he saw no hoods pulled low over familiar faces. And Marian was walking idly, without any hint that she was waiting for someone. She was good, Allan knew, but she wasn’t that good.

He reached out to pluck at her sleeve, startling her. When she saw him her eyes widened. No doubt she was expecting a beggar. With his face dirtied, his eyes bloodshot and his belly rumbling, she wasn’t entirely disappointed.

“Marian,” he said with a smile that made his lips crack, ducking his head as the guard squinted at him. He pulled her a few quick steps away. “Fancy meeting you here!”

“Allan,” she replied in a strange, tight voice. His spirits sank and he turned loose her sleeve. So she knew.

Sucking in a breath, he clasped his hands together and whispered urgently, “Marian, you’ve got to talk to Robin for me. He listens to you. Look, it was Gisborne – I couldn’t – you know what it’s like –”

Her lip curled in disgust, though she didn’t move away. She didn’t need to, not with a sword at her command. “You put Robin in danger – you put everyone in danger. And you rendered the work I do meaningless.” Sweeping her skirt over his dusty shoes, she stalked out of the darkened stall. “I have nothing more to say to you.”

“D’you have anything to eat?” he called, instead of begging her to stay, to listen to him, to believe him. She paused, then drew a roll and an apple out of her bag and tossed them to him without meeting his eyes. Allan bolted them down while the peddler chased him out with a broomstick. He scaled the wall and slept in the country that night, huddled next to some scrawny pigs for warmth. He didn’t mind the smell, and they didn’t mind the tears.

On the third night he didn’t sleep at all. Guts grumbling in protest at his supper of unripe berriesr, he crouched at the edge of the camp and stared at the smoke from the cook fire until his eyes watered. It was past dawn before he finally let his chin drop to his chest, but before he could do more than drift off, he heard the sound of footsteps.

At first he thought it was John, who naturally made more noise than the rest of them. But it was Will who pushed his way through the bushes, his feet uncharacteristically heavy and dragging – the one person Allan wanted to see least in all the world. And the one person he wanted to see most, always. He huddled in his hiding spot, shivering.

Will stopped at the base of a tree just to his left. Instead of taking an early morning piss, though, he merely laid his arms against the trunk and bent his head. Allan listened to his ragged breathing for a few moments, instinct fighting need. It was not much of a contest.

“Will,” he said, low and hoarse, as he forced his stiff body to rise.

Will whipped around,spotting him with a sharp intake of breath. “You –” he breathed, going for his belt knife.

Allan raised his hands in supplication, his heart twisting at the look in Will’s eyes. No sum in the world was worth having Will look at him like that – not that it made any difference now.

“Please.” He took a halting step forward, trying to decide what else to say, but there was nothing. He only repeated, softer, “Please, Will.”

Will’s jaw tightened and he darted forward. Allan braced himself, expecting a blow. Instead Will’s mouth landed on his, hot and desperate, as his fingers clasped Allan’s wrists.

Allan remembered the last kiss, four days ago – no, five now. They had wandered off in the early hours, like they often did. Will was particularly secretive about what he did with Allan when he assumed no one was looking. Except Allan knew that Robin had spotted them one night, and he was fairly certain that Djaq had known almost since the beginning. Despite the total absence of disapproval or repurcussions, Allan had never suggested being any less careful about things. Will was a private sort of person regardless. And Allan had once found secrets exciting.

That kiss had been quick and familiar, just before they stepped apart and back into the camp. Allan had been sick with dread over his next meeting with Gisborne, but he’d tried his best to hide it on account of Will was still grieving for his father.

The flavour of grief was different now, tinged with ashes. Allan kissed him hard and took a fumbling step toward the tree, only to find himself spun around and pushed against the trunk. Will’s bruised lips drew away, his hands coming up to dig painfully into Allan’s shoulders.

“Money, Allan,” he whispered, brow furrowed. His voice held no accusation as Marian’s had, as Robin’s had. There was only hurt, shivers of it running through his body. “Why always the money?”

Allan held onto his narrow hips, breathed against his neck. “You don’t know what it’s like, to be – to be worth nothing.” Nothing, ever; nothing always. From the moment he came into this world up until now, in the aftermath of betrayal.

He wanted Will to be angry, to shove him away, to strike him. It would so much easier to take a beating than to feel like he’d given one out. But Will only shook his head, lost in confusion and anguish.

“You weren’t nothing. Not to me.”

He was trying to understand; he’d always tried to understand. It came easy to some, like Robin. To others it never came at all.

One thing Allan did have was a solid belief in the turning of his own luck. Hadn’t it happened, again and again? On his back one moment, on top again the next – and now was no time to fret over the next fall. Not when he’d got Will in his arms again.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” He kissed Will again, swiftly, his heart speeding up again. “I know I done wrong, but I’ll do all sorts of good deeds to make up for it, you’ll see!”

Will took a step back. His face was still pained, but it was beginning to harden like clay in sunlight. “No, Allan.”

“I’ll earn my place back,” said Allan, knowing he was babbling but unable to stop himself. “Earn Robin’s trust again –” When he reached out, Will shrugged his hand off.

Allan stared at him and bent forward, sure that if he could only touch him again, it would all be well. But Will continued backing up, drawing his cloak tight and glancing into the shadows on either side.

“You have to go.” He swallowed, and Allan knew he wanted to look away but his eyes never wavered. “And you mustn’t come back.”

Lack of sleep and fresh shock caught up with Allan in a rush, and he stumbled as he gave up the support of the gnarled tree trunk. There was some way around this, there was always some way around it – he wasn’t in the gang but it was a big forest, and Will was a free man. “If we could meet again –”

“Don’t come back,” said Will again, his voice strained, and he turned and vanished into the forest.

Allan took another step, faltered, barely felt it as his knees hit the hard-packed earth. The frost hadn’t set in yet, but it was only a matter of weeks.

He stared at the rustling leaves over his head. The wind was picking up. It seemed to rush through his ears, bite through his skin. Surely it would rain before noon. He couldn’t bear the cold rain in the forest, not without soup simmering over the coals and warm voices talking and a bedroll next to Will’s. The villagers wouldn’t want him, not if they’d heard. He had to go back to Nottingham. It was the only choice left to him, now.

On the fourth night he slept on a pallet outside the castle kitchens, a letter with Gisborne’s seal beneath his heavy head.