SUMMARY: Saving the girl, debunking a royal imposter, and humiliating an evil tyrant … what more could an outlaw ask for? Except perhaps NOT to be used as a punching bag by one's best friend. Much refuses to cook for Robin until Robin apologizes for his tirade on the hillside. Set directly after 1x13: A Clue: No; spoilers up to that point.

DISCLAIMER: Robin, Much, and the others do not belong to me, and I'm not making any money from this story. No copywrite infringement intended.

DEDICATION: As are all of my Robin Hood stories: for LadyKate. This story grew directly out of one of our conversations.

Burnt Squirrel

By Alicia

Her, we loved. Her, I loved.

Marian was alive. And safe. And not married to Gisborne. The ghost of Marian's lips lingered warm on Robin's mouth.

Let's go home, lads.

It was the battle cry of heroes. And despite the King turning out to be an impostor, despite the shadow of Locksley's loss and Robin's imminent departure – in other words, despite all the noise and drama and near-disaster of the day – everything was all right. King Richard even seemed a little closer, although in fact he had not yet left the Holy Land. Robin was safe in the forest, surrounded by his men. And he was hungry.

It was only after Much tore into his second leg of "chicken" with relish, as he sat next to Robin and ate with gusto while never once ceasing to talk, that Robin realized there was something funny about his plate. And not funny in a good way. "Much," Robin said in his best tone of command, breaking into Much's monologue. "Where is my dinner?"

Djaq put her own plate down, looked at Robin, and chortled. Her laughter spread to Will in one direction, and to Little John in the other. But it was Allan who finally stopped laughing like a foolish peasant child long enough to say, "We thought –"

"I told Much to—" said Djaq. The rest was lost in a gale of, very uncharacteristic for Djaq, almost girlish laughter.

"We eat but—" said Little John.

"Everyone shut up!" Robin bellowed. He didn't usually take quite that tone with his men, but usually his men acted more mature than this. And he was really hungry. "Much! Where is my dinner?"

Much, who'd been quiet as the rest of the men laughed at Robin, said, "I made plenty. I'll feed you, just as soon as you apologize for the things you said to me this afternoon."

"What?"

Unlike the rest of the nincompoops around the fire who seemed about to choke themselves laughing, Much seemed almost nervous. He said, "You told me to get lost. So, I don't cook for you until you tell me not to get lost."

"I didn't…" oh, damn, Robin probably had told Much to get lost. Somewhere in that dreadful blur of one of the worst afternoons of Robin's life. But it was all okay now. Much was understanding. He was the most understanding man Robin had ever encountered in his life. So it made no sense that Much would be sitting there at that moment, holding to a full pot of cooked meat that smelled heavenly, refusing to give Robin any. "I'm sorry for the things I said to you," Robin mumbled in Much's direction. He lunged for the meat.

Little John knocked Robin's hand back. While the other three still gave little chuckles like hiccups, Little John's face had sobered. "That is no apology," he said. "Much told us, and we are all agreed. You will apologize properly before you eat."

"Do I have to do it in front of all of you?" Robin stalled for time.

"He didn't insult Much in front of all of us," Will said logically. "So if we were fair …"

"But we are not fair," said Djaq. "We want to hear. Go, Robin."

Robin looked from one face to the other. Allan, who was still laughing his ass off at Robin. Little John, who had the same look that he usually sported when he was going to say "we go to Nottingham" or something equally heroic and ridiculous and inevitable. Will, who simply looked perplexed, Djaq, who had that infuriating air of superiority, and added, "it is only right." And Much, whose eyes Robin could not meet.

"Fine," Robin said, giving them all one last glare and picking up his bow. "I'll go shoot my own squirrel."

Their renewed laughter trailed after him as he headed into the forest.

Much, you must not be so easily wounded.

A true leader must not give a command he would not also follow. A true leader must not ask anything of his servants that he would not ask of himself.

If you love me, then why take him? Why not me?

Because Robin did love Much. And Robin wanted to protect Much. He didn't think that he could have shot that arrow, even shooting high on purpose, if it had been Much back there. He'd just depended on Much to understand that.

The forest was awfully cold in the evening.

It wasn't that Robin couldn't shoot a squirrel. Robin could shoot a squirrel in his sleep. Cooking it was going to present its own challenges, but Robin was Robin Hood after all; when the time came, he'd find a way. And he'd carefully told himself three times that hunting was not killing. But still, the little chatterers darted this way and that, gathering their nuts in the growing twilight, and still Robin's arrow remained quietly ready. It wasn't killing. Squirrels weren't human. And the men were damn well going to see a lot more weakness than just his wounded pride if Robin came back empty handed. He saw a fat squirrel at the foot of one tree not five feet away, aimed, and shot. The arrow went directly through the squirrel's eye.

And it wasn't a squirrel lying dead at the foot of the tree. It was a Saracen soldier. A man. Empty eye sockets staring at nothing, body riddled with arrows, mouth twisted in the agony of death. Robin fought to breathe, fought to keep composure, turned away. He managed to stay on his feet, but he could not return to gather his kill.

And it would be a tragedy, too! A tragedy for you to have survived the Turk, and made it to within a few miles of Locksley, only to be killed by your own master!

"That is why I love you," Much had told Robin once, not only on the way back to Locksley, but time and again in the Holy Land, when Robin had turned utter disaster into less utter disaster by telling a clever joke. It drew people to Robin, like the few fires allowed in the desert nights drew solders from a hundred camps.

Much's own little joke had spiraled way out of his control. That had become clear immediately after Robin had stormed out into the forest, when Allan had pelted Robin's retreating back with leaves and hollered, "go after him, Much, see how well he hunts!"

"Stop," Little John had said. "This is not what Much wanted."

Little John had been right. This was not what Much had wanted.

Because, Much, you are simple too.

Much had no desire to frustrate Robin, or to hurt him. Or, despite the number of times Robin had let Much down when the others in the gang had made fun of him, to humiliate Robin before the men.

He had only meant to turn utter disaster into a joke. And Robin's words out on that hillside had been a catastrophe if anything in Much's entire life had been.

You speak every facile thought that comes into your head. You are like a pox on my skin.

Why wouldn't Robin just take it back? And they would all laugh kindly this time, and Much would heap Robin's plate with squirrel meat from the still-full pot, and they would celebrate their victory.

There was only one reason that Robin could be withholding the apology. Because he really did think Much was a simpleton. Because he had wished Much would stay permanently lost. Because he was no longer the brother in arms who Much had followed into battle, but a jaded frustrated leader who wanted nothing to do with the ex-servant tagalong.

Of course, given this, if Much were any smarter, he'd be back at the fire with the men, who were, for once in all their lives, on Much's side. But instead he followed Robin through the forest. It wasn't easy, but after months of learning each other's secret signals, anyone in Robin Hood's gang could track anyone else in Robin Hood's gang. Such had saved their lives many times.

Robin had shot a squirrel. But the squirrel was lying at the base of the tree where it had fallen, and Robin had his back to it, facing away from Much and looking up toward the sky, shaking slightly.

"Master?" Much said tentatively.

"Go ahead. Laugh."

"I am not laughing. I only wanted you to …"

"Apologize for what I do not remember?" Robin turned, and there was some of that dreadful mask of anger across his features. But there was something else too, more difficult to make out in the moonlight, but definitely there. Pain.

"For what … you do not remember?"

"Surely you of all people understand," Robin said. He turned away again, but did not walk further into the woods.

Unable to help himself, Much went to the squirrel, picked it up and attached it to his belt. "Master, let's go back to camp, and I will cook this with the others, and …"

"I do not want your pity."

Before he could stop himself, Much blurted out, "I want you to talk to me! If I speak every simple facile thought that goes through my head, it is only fair that you should do likewise!"

Robin's face softened, and he took a step toward Much. Closing the space between them. Not completely, but at least they were not shouting from opposite sides of the world. "It has been a horrible day, my friend."

It had been more than a day, but Much wasn't about to interrupt Robin.

"I saw the my beloved die, before I had even told her of my love, and the words were cruelly snatched away from me. I killed the men surrounding us in the forest. I killed them, forsaking my vow. And then it was all for nothing. You were all going to have the lives you had always wanted, and I had thrown my life away. I wanted to run. I did run. And I do not remember anything else that day, not until your voice, and hers, pulled me back, back to Locksley, back to Robin Hood. I could search through the rest of the day if you ask that of me."

"No," Much said. It had been almost unbearable to hear Robin's speech, and still more not to interrupt him and tell him it was okay when it obviously wasn't and if he did Robin would attack him and now he understood marginally better why but he still had to make it better.

"Then…"

"Shall we just go back to camp and eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

Much had chased Robin out into the woods, Much would have to draw him back. Without really thinking about it, he blurted out, "Tell me this one thing, then, Master. Do you think that I am simple?"

Rather than reacting in anger, Robin took another step toward Much, closing the space still further and almost touching. He regarded Much for a long moment, then said, "When I made the Sheriff promise to pay all that money in reparations to the people, why…"

Much interrupted before Robin could finish. "You knew he'd never pay, but you wanted to scare him."

"Why not just kill him outright?"

"Because without King Richard, someone worse would just take the Sheriff's place," Much said. He was completely perplexed as to what these questions had to do with anything, but the important thing was that Robin was talking. "You told us all about this, Master."

"That is the point, Much. I did not."

"You didn't? But I remember…"

"Not once. And you understood."

Now Much understood more than Robin's battle strategy, and he was glad of the darkness to hide the blush he felt creeping across his face. "So you do not think that I am simple."

"No."

"But you said I was … not just earlier today, but when I was trying to keep you away from Gisborne with that hot poker."

"I thought you understood. You were being merciful. You all consider mercy to be the greatest good, and I …"

"You don't," Much said.

"No. I think that is a simple mindset. But yours is not the observation of a simple man." Robin shrugged. "Don't tell the lads that I said this. But it is entirely possible that I was wrong. About it being a simple mindset not to torture the traitor."

Much did not need to hear any more. "Master? Are we friends again?" He held out his hand.

"We are," Robin clasped it at the elbow. Then the pain washed away from his face to be replaced with a different kind of demon. "But since it would not do to have the men think I could not kill a simple squirrel in the forest…" Using their joined arms, he propelled Much subtly toward a clump of trees where the ground sloped down, "we are going to tell them that there were no squirrels …" Further downhill, and now Much could hear the rush of water, "so we shall go fishing instead …" Much found himself suddenly dumped face-first into the river. He at least had the presence of mind to keep hold of Robin's arm, so Robin went in too. Much surfaced first, waited until Robin got a good solid breath, then solidly dunked his former master. "Fine, but that is for making me clean the fish."

Robin dunked him right back. "And that is for bringing me out here in the first place." And then he disappeared behind a low-hanging bush and returned chasing a school of fish.

Much easily speared four in a row with his belt knife.

"That is for saving us all," Robin said quietly. "If it hadn't been for you, we'd never have known the King wasn't real."

"Thank you," said Much. And he meant it.