This was born out of my interest in following Allan's thought-process throughout the show, as (in my opinion anyway) he and Much are the only two characters that the writers managed to keep completely consistent through the show's run thus far: Much because his train of thought is so simple, and Allan because his is so complex. It was great fun mapping out the deceptions and manipulations that lie behind Allan's outward actions.
I was also genuinely curious as to where that yellow dress that Djaq wears came from, and what was originally meant to be a funny story ended up being…well this. And the epilogue caught me completely off-guard. I'm not entirely sure I can take credit for it, as it seemed to write itself!
This takes place during "The Booby and the Beast" and I've tried to keep it as close to canon as possible. However, there are also a couple of moment where I've cheated - Marian isn't wearing a dress when she goes out riding with the Count and Eve never wore a flower in her hair - but hopefully it'll become clear why I made these minor changes.
Also, I don't know if the tavern wench from "Ducking and Diving" was ever given a name - here I've called her Margaret, and she's the woman who is present when Robin discovers Allan's treachery.
A Scrap of Yellow Silk
Outlaw's Camp
Allan gritted his teeth and leaned back against the tree trunk, trying not to wince. The bruises that covered his body – thankfully, most of them concealed under his clothing – were still tender, and Robin's latest attempt to get them all killed wasn't doing wonders for his headache.
Around him, the others were preparing for a quick meal before heading for Steven's cottage, the man supposedly responsible for the strong-room that would hold the winnings of the casino – the one that had made Robin positively giddy. Naturally, Robin wanted to stage a raid on the castle, despite the cautionary words of his fellow outlaws, Lady Marian, and a Bavarian Count, and just as naturally, their protests had fallen on deaf ears.
Allan scowled to himself, his eyes watching the excited figure of Robin as he strode back and forth, calling out ideas for their passage in and out of the castle that night. A sense of resignation had fallen over the other outlaws, who half-heartedly returned his ideas with their own suggestions.
Allan didn't bother - if his advice last night had any effect at all, Guy would ensure the castle was so well-guarded that Robin would be forced to concede defeat before any attempt to break in had properly begun. He refused to feel guilty about it, or about the weight of the single gold coin secreted in one of his inner pockets. It didn't take a stretch of the imagination to see that he was practically getting paid to keep them all safe.
They should be thanking me, he thought as his eyes closed.
He had returned from his rendezvous with Guy the previous night, deep in thought, flipping the single coin between his fingers. He felt the fool for having initially assumed that vague tidbits of information would appease the temperamental man. Not so. Still, it wasn't a major setback. He'd just have to be more cunning in future, balancing Guy and Robin's mutual desire to sabotage each other by finding a middle path: one that guaranteed the safety of both Robin's life and Guy's money.
He had sighed in frustration: this would be more complicated than he'd originally conceived. Torture had made everything much simpler.
He opened his eyes suddenly, instinctively feeling that someone was nearby. Sure enough, Djaq was standing right in front of him, watching him silently, her eyes level with his by virtue of the slope that surrounded his tree. He jumped, winced and groaned.
"Jeez, Djaq, what're doin'?"
She cocked a speculative eyebrow.
"You are in pain," she told him. "I can tell by the way you are sitting."
"I'm fine," he said. "I told you, just a scrap with a local. Nothing I haven't weathered before."
"Are you sure you don't want me to take a look? I am not in this gang in order to lend a woman's touch to the camp."
He forgot to smile at her joke, his mind suddenly unable to register anything past the thought of her hands running across his torso. For a moment temptation overrode his common sense, and he was about to concede when a sharper thought cut through his daze. Would she be able to tell the difference between the marks of torture and those of his cover-story: a rowdy punter? He had no idea. Measuring up the odds, and looking back into her steady gaze, he swallowed.
"No, really Djaq. I'm fine."
She gazed innocently back a moment longer – too innocently – then nodded and turned away. His insides squirmed.
She suspects something.
It had been going on for a few days now, what with her slipping several uncharacteristically curious questions about his whereabouts and wellbeing into their usual conversations. All were asked in a perfectly bland tone, but sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of insolence in her face, of a challenge in her eyes. And then, it was gone again, and she was once again all friendly sarcasm and wide eyes.
The sight made him profoundly uneasy, as did the thought that she somehow just might be more devious than he was. Something would have to be done about that.