This story started out as a chaste little one-shot response to 2.7 when Marian's father dies (finally!) and she goes to live in the forest. It has now become my outlet for pure R/M fluff. Totally non-canonical and probably anachronistic. But, you know what, at least she's alive. Oh snap. Hear that, BBC?
Okay, now, to the reason why you're reading. . .
Much looked incredibly embarrassed when Marian and Robin finally rode up to camp. He decided to take that opportunity to wander off and forage. Anything to avoid them. If he had wanted them to notice that he had left, though, he would have been disappointed. They weren't thinking about anything but last night. And the hectic happenings of that morning.
Marian never would have thought that after her first night in Robin's bed, she would be jumping out the window and running away. Yet the more she reflected on it, the more she uncovered memories of the way she felt when they were young—before he left. She remembered the first time he kissed her. He had tricked her. She was so appalled to feel his lips on hers, she punched him and ran back into her house. She then gave strict orders to her father not to let Robin anywhere near her. She would rather be quarantined then see his face. She couldn't avoid him forever, though, and soon she overcame her bashfulness, but there was one remainder: from that day until the day he told her he was leaving, whenever her eyes caught his, her cheeks flushed red, just for a moment, but long enough for him to notice.
Robin looked over at Marian, who was lost in memories. When she glanced in his direction, their eyes met, and there it was—she blushed.
Robin had been thinking of memories, too, but not of their first kiss. He was recalling one later, one in Locksley, his home, where he rightfully took Marian to his bed last night even if it was technically Gisbourne's, a memory of a kiss they shared when they weren't children anymore and when their betrothal wasn't just an abstraction. He remembered this kiss because it was bittersweet. He had made his decision to follow King Richard to the Holy Land, but he hadn't told her. She was so smitten with him that night that she kissed him as she was saying goodbye, returning to Knighton, her eyes gleaming. He was hiding the truth, though. He knew this would be the last kiss. He savored it, made it a memory to cherish, turned it over and over in his mind during the nights in Palestine, nights when he never slept well from the horrors of battle and the nightmare of his world without her, Marian, whom he didn't ask to wait, Marian, who always blushed—
"Robin, you look so serious and sad, what are you thinking about?" she interrupted his thoughts.
His face brightened at the sound of her voice. She was real and there and she was his and the memories were just memories.
"I'm just wondering about breakfast. Now, where do you suppose Much wandered off to?" he said, putting his hands on his hips and looking around.
"You know, you can't rely on Much to do everything for you," she teased.
After a moment, she added in seriousness, "And when we are married and Richard has returned, Much will be at Bonchurch, Robin."
"I know."
"Well, I'm just reminding you."
The truth was, sometimes he did need reminding. When Robin left Marian and went to war, a huge void had opened up in his life. Much had done his best to fill it by being a fiercely loyal companion. When Marian came back into Robin's life, she displaced Much, whether any of them would admit that or not. Robin tried to compensate by continuing to treat Much as he always had, even if that meant relying on him as a manservant and not the free man and friend he made him.
Right now, poor Much was kicking acorns and muttering to himself somewhere away from camp.
They made breakfast without him.
woah, sorry. totally did not intend to leave off on a downer. if it makes you feel any better, don't picture much kicking acorns and just turn your thoughts to the next chapter, which i haven't written yet, but i promise will contain some good old medieval cotton candy romance. yum.