A/N: What? Guy/Meg? Have you gone mad?

I recently re-watched all three series and decided I liked "A Dangerous Deal" very much. So here's a short AU which picks up from the execution scene. The story wanted to stay PG, despite my inclinations. I might spin-off into an AU second half of series 3, but then again, I might not. You decide!

Was it normal for a crowd to gasp before the executioner's blade came down on the proffered neck? Or had it already come down, and Meg just hadn't—somehow-felt it strike home? In the moments between blinking out into the sun of the castle courtyard and being forced to kneel, she had become aware of an unseasonal cold; wondering, will it hurt? Will I know the moment I die? Will I miss my home? Will I go on to greater things? Will I sit at the right side of God? What will that feel like? She had been euphoric, and dazed; all she could whimper to Guy was, "I'm frightened." For a second after the admission had left her lips, she felt as stupid as a child. She was no martyr, but martyrs at least were stoic, even young, female ones. Can't see St Catherine on the wheel mewling "I'm frightened," can you now, Meg? And what would he think of her? You've brought this on yourself.

His words of comfort were matter-of-fact, but he said them with no malice. "It will be quick."

The splintery catch of the cut stump upon which her throat had been balanced put paid to any notion that there would be no pain. But then why did she not feel the axe slicing through her skin and severing something vital? Why was she still breathing? And why was the crowd gasping?

She was aware of a thunk to her right, where Guy was kneeling, and felt her heart jump. She waited for the sickening thump of a lopped off head to hit the wood of the platform. Instead, there was shouting and confusion. "Isabeeeeeelllla!" The fear-inducing bellow of Isabella's husband flowed across the courtyard, and Meg could just make out the sadistic lord bounding toward the dais upon which Isabella had been enthroned. Meg was breathless; she knew not what to think. Isabella was shouting, the crowd was busily and excitedly moving and—not exactly cheering . . . the executioner had not retrieved his axe, and someone was tugging at her bound hands.

With a massive effort, Meg pulled herself off the stump and turned. Guy! He was free and was pulling at the cords that imprisoned her hands. Chaos reigned around them, but no guards yet prevented their escape. With a bound down the platform steps that Meg couldn't help but admire—well, they were still alive; she was still a woman with blood pumping in her veins—Guy turned back and held out his hand to her. He didn't have to bark an order or say anything; grabbing her kyrtle in her fists, Meg hurried after him. She swept her hair out of her face just in time to see a guard with a halberd thrust its sharp edge toward them. "Guy! Look out!"

They both turned at the same time and she half-hurtled, half-fell down the stairs, her forearm colliding with the edge of the blade at the same time that he kicked the man and punched his unguarded side. The blade cleaved off her sleeve, catching on the fabric and deflecting her body from the full force of the blow. She cried out in pain as her white arm was painted red, but through her tears she saw the man go down. "Guy . . ." she murmured, ashamed of how weak she sounded.

"It's all right," he said, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and the other holding her by the waist. His proximity would have thrilled her in other circumstances—well, it would have if they both didn't stink of the dungeons—but her gaze was fixed on the blood gushing down her arm. "We have to get out of here."

Mustn't slow us up, mustn't act like a little girl. Guy had seized the halberd from the prone man as he half-lifted, half-dragged Meg forward. Her reactionary barb- "Oi! I know how to walk!"-died on her lips. Don't walk, run! Guy fought off two guards, using the axe-head of the halberd to stab one and the staff-like other end to blind another. He does know how to fight, she thought smugly. It was all she could do to duck at the appropriate moment. Oh, all right then. She stuck out her foot lazily and tripped another two guards, who fell on top of each other. She could still sort of understand Isabella: men were useless!

She rose to her feet and shouted, "Get that horse!"

To her surprise, Guy didn't argue. He leapt past her and dove at the unsuspecting rider—another guard—knocking him off his seat. Still impressed, Meg thought. Then, he has had a lot of practice. She shuddered slightly. Until very recently, Sir Guy of Gisborne had been evil incarnate, Satan's right-hand man—and after that, as miserable and alone as Lucifer.

She had no more time to think. Guy held out a hand to her as he urged the borrowed horse into a fast walk. She grasped his arm with her good hand, and with an effort that made her teeth rattle, she flung herself onto the saddle in front of him, shoved unladylike across the pommel.

"Ooof," she gurgled, impelling one leg, skirts and all, over the saddle. Guy was riding hell-for-leather—no idea where—and arrows were flitting through the air. "Keep your head down," Guy ordered. There was little point in disagreeing. Her arm was still bleeding, her ribcage and throat were aching, and she'd never ridden astride before. The horse whinnied in fright; they had made it as far as the gates of Nottingham and were being surrounded. By guards, by townspeople with a grudge, by Thornton's men, and even by outlaws. Who was on their side? Was anyone on their side?

"How's your arm?" Guy asked, leaning his chin on her shoulder in order to be heard above the din.

Meg was flattered to be asked. Too right he should ask. "I'll live," she said, with feeling.

"Can you take the reins?"

Meg nodded, about to qualify her assent, but Guy had already flung them into her good hand and was taking a bow and quiver—where had he picked those up?!-and was training them on the crowd. "Go!" he shouted. Meg kicked the horse's flank as hard as she could.

"Where?"

"Get into the forest, if you can!"

And they were off. Guy was loosing arrows behind them—was he hitting anything? Impossible to aim on a moving horse at a moving target—and Meg's hand was getting clammy on the reins. "Oh," she muttered, looking down at the sweat and blood. She didn't feel faint, she didn't feel . . . The horse was foaming at the bridle, and she was beginning to see nothing but green. She squinted hard to guide their way through the trees, still going at full pelt. Was anyone still behind them?

"Where should I-?"

"The waterfall!"

Meg didn't know which waterfall he meant; she knew the spring of St Swithin and eased the reins in that direction. "Guy . . ." His arrows were gone and he moved his right hand to the pommel. "The horse is flagging. It's probably not used to carrying two. Should we . . .?"

With his left hand he took her palm. "We'll need to bind this. Are you in much pain?"

She liked the feel of his hand in hers. "Do we need to take the forest road? If they're following us . . ." She craned her head over her left shoulder, trying to look beyond Guy's black shape.

Guy put his chin on her shoulder again. "They've got better things to worry about."

"That's a bit flippant. I mean, we barely escaped. Come to think of it, how did we escape?"

He cleared his throat. "Robin Hood."

Meg giggled. "Robin Hood? But he hates you."

"I know," said Guy.

They didn't make it to the waterfall. Guy at last paid attention to the suffering mount- "I told you so!"-and, drawing them into a secluded clearing, dismounted, helping Meg to do so. Guy led the exhausted horse to a trickle of a stream—Meg knew Sherwood better than many, but Guy knew it to a degree that painfully reprimanded him for never catching Robin Hood—and knelt himself, cupping his hands to drink from the slowly running water. He glanced up at Meg, who used her good hand to drink. The water was cold and woke her to the other sensations she was feeling. Her arm smarted. Bracing herself, she pushed her hurt arm into the water, downstream of where the horse was drinking, and let it wash over her. She turned to see Guy untucking his shirt. "Use the bottom of my skirt. There's plenty of it." He complied, ripping a strip of linen from her overskirt.

"Give me your hand," he said, not unkindly. She presented it, smirking. He wrapped up the wound, which was mostly superficial. "Why are you laughing?"

"Just surprised," she said. She shrugged, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Surprised at me?"

"Surprised at both of us. At this day. I never thought . . ." She saw his look darken; did he think she regretted saving his life?

He finished tying off the strip of cloth and got to his feet. He searched through folds and crevices of the saddle. "Now what?" asked Meg. Guy found a hunk of bread in one of the folds and handed it to her. Meg gazed at him cynically.

"Eat it," he said.

"No, you have half," she said doggedly, cramming half into his hand. "You have to keep your strength up." He looked at her quizzically. "You have something to live for, now." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't you?"

His look softened, and he smiled. "Meg," he said ruefully. Satisfied, Meg began to eat her bread. Guy, not eating his, continued searching the saddle. He found a small dagger which he tucked into his boot. "We'll stay here the for the night."

"Aren't you good at giving orders?"

He glanced at her over the top of the saddle. "Do you have a better idea?"

"We need food. You used all the arrows, so there's no squirrel or rabbit to be had. Unless you can catch meat with your bare hands?" He smiled, faintly, in spite of himself.

"There are berries near the waterfall. I've seen mushrooms grow there, too. We'll set out first light, take the east road." He frowned when he saw her face.

"I'm sure you know what you're doing, but you could ask for my opinion."

He was stroking the horse's flank absent-mindedly. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to . . ."

"Consulting other people? Thinking about someone other than me, me, me?" She saw him shrink from the criticism and his brow darken. Don't forget he took the dagger . . . "Look, Guy, I didn't mean-"

"You're right," he said, with such despair she instantly regretted thinking about the dagger. He looked down. "In the morning, we should part ways."

"Split up, you mean? Lead our pursuers on a wild goose chase?" Meg's cheeks were flushed with the thought of adventure. "I know Isabella's husband got to the hoard of gold, but I know other things, other places—we could make our fortunes—"

Guy rounded the horse's haunch and approached Meg. She had to look up to meet his gaze; it's like having a conversation with a giant. "If they're pursuing anyone, it's me. Isabella will likely have more serious trouble on her hands than worrying about you."

"That's not—"

"You're young. I'm grateful to you, for showing compassion and . . ."

"Guy, I'm not leaving you." Meg chewed her lip. "Unless you're sick of 'stupid girl.'"

"I don't believe you're a stupid girl."

"Well, then, trust me. We make a good team."

"I do trust you. That's why I don't want you to get hurt."

Hurt by them? Or hurt by you? Meg rethreaded what she actually knew of this man. For as long as she could remember, there were tales of Sir Guy of Gisborne terrorizing the neighborhood. Could he have changed all that much? There is good in him, he showed me that. If there's good in him, there's also bad in me.

"Isabella's right. Men have used you in the past."

Had he used her in the dungeons? Had he manipulated her into freeing him? He isn't like that! I know he isn't! "They won't be using me. Ever again." She shoved him in the chest with her good arm. "So I'll take that dagger, thank you."

Guy hesitated, but only for a moment. He handed her the dagger, hilt first. She took it and tied it into her kyrtle. "Now, I'm going off to look for wood."

"Wood? You want to have a fire?"

"I want to have a bath. And I'm not going to bed with wet hair."

Guy smirked. "Anyone pursuing us will spot smoke from miles off."

"Well, as you said, it's unlikely that anyone but outlaws will follow us into the forest tonight." Outlaws. We're outlaws now. "And they seem to have taken a shine to us."

"To you, not to me."

Meg shrugged. "Can't believe that you'd be scared of Robin Hood."

Guy glowered at her. "I'm not. Let him come, if you're determined to have your fire." He lowered himself heavily onto the grass. "And what do you command me to do?"

Meg sank down beside him, arm on his shoulder. "Rest. We did just escape death." Guy quirked a half-smile at her. She couldn't quite determine what this half-smile meant, but it seemed to say that once you'd defied death once, you'd defied death a thousand times. "Fine," she hmmphed. "I expect you to guard the camp."

"The camp?"

"Shut up."

Meg wasn't sure that when she returned to the stream that Guy would still be there, or if the horse would still be there. As she was completing her self-appointed, very dull task of gathering firewood—and the chilling breeze seemed to validate her wish for a fire—she imagined several scenarios.

1. Guy had gone off on foot somewhere. He would have left a trail for her to follow him because he wanted her to catch up.

Worse, 2. Guy had taken the horse and was halfway to Lincoln or Peterborough . . .

Worse still, 3. the outlaws had found Guy and had killed him (well, they didn't tend to kill people but they could have made an exception for Guy) and were now waiting for her to come back—or not.

Worst yet, 4. Isabella had revenged herself on her odious husband and was back in control as Sheriff. Her guards had found Guy, and he'd been taken back to Nottingham's dungeons for torture and execution.

Meg shivered. Aren't you glad you took the dagger? She was and she wasn't. She'd left him defenseless, after. Hardly. He can take care of himself.

She hadn't wasted time; she'd filled her kyrtle with as much dry wood as she could find and moved as quickly and quietly back through the trees, using the sound of the stream to guide her. She moved slowly into the trees, one hand balancing the wood and the other fingering the dagger at her side. The horse was still there; the reins were tied to a tree. She looked at the ground; no footprints, blood, disturbances. Cautiously, she went forward. Seeing and hearing nothing, she flung the wood down and wiped the dust from her kyrtle into the pile. So where was he?

She fought against her disappointment as she fished the edged stones from the sleeve of her good arm. He'd chivalrously left the horse for her; how noble of him. She struck the stones against each other, using bits of straw she'd found clinging to the horse's saddle as well as some of her own hair in place of kindling. It was hard-going and painful. She'd thought twice about calling out for Guy, but didn't want to give anyone listening the satisfaction. "Damn them—men—all of them—traitorous and self-centered!" The fire was smoking—it wasn't a great fire; it wouldn't have served to cook by—and blowing smoke into her eyes, but she didn't care.

"So you got the fire going."

Meg whipped around, instantly wiping her tears on her good sleeve. He was standing at a distance, looking quizzically down at her. All the reproaches and angry questions flew to her face in the shape of a blush; all she could get out, quivering with rage, was, "Where have you been?!"

She could see now that he had his black shirt in one hand and that his hair was wet. "I had a bath."

Bath. Yes. Waterfall. Yes. She got to her feet and stalked over to him, but there was nothing to say. He eyed her, amused, towelling off the excess water with the sleeve of his shirt. She was not blind, nor was she a gap-toothed, lecherous little bawd. She trained her eyes obediently to his, making no reference to how a state of undress suited him. She crossed her arms. "Well . . . how was it?"

He wiped his face with the shirt and then tossed it over his head. "Cold."

Meg spun around and indicated the fire expansively with her arms held wide. She stood over it, pretending to warm herself and looking down, anywhere but at him. "I didn't hear anyone or see anyone," she announced. "Anyway, it's getting dark."

She heard him approach from behind. "Here." He handed her a piece of wood, oval-shaped with a dip in the middle, in which were ranged handfuls of mushrooms and berries. Meg took them gratefully, peering over her shoulder at him as he sat down, cross-legged, in front of the fire. She picked up a red berry and popped it into her mouth.

"Have you eaten?" He nodded. His hair was still wet. Meg sat on her heels, balancing the wood-bowl on her lap, and quietly munched the berries. She gazed out of the corner of her eye every few seconds; he was staring into the flames, his expression unreadable. He'd brushed his hair out of his face, but he could still do with a look in the glass. She hesitated to lean across and comb his hair out with her fingers; it felt like a violation, a girlish presumption, even after all they'd been through. She cautiously picked up the mushrooms, smelling them, and hoping Guy knew his poisonous plants from the non-poisonous ones.

"I wish we had a bit of butter and some eggs," Meg sighed. "I could make us some nice eggs with mushrooms. Some fresh cream, some parsley. Some ale."

He smiled genuinely at her. "I would like that."

She ate the mushrooms, with dirt still clinging to them, cold and chewy, and offered the last few to Guy. He shook his head. She left the fire to wash her hands and drink more from the stream. The sky was turning purple, and she was getting sleepy. Yet somehow she didn't want to be the first one to fall asleep.

She thought about the incongruity of Sir Guy of Gisborne gathering mushrooms and berries by hand, groveling around on the forest floor to feed them. The man who'd always taken whatever he wanted, who was cruel to his peasants and despised by the low-born. "Guy, is it true you stole a girl's necklace? One of the folk from Locksley?"

He glanced at her. "Who told you that?"

"Oh, I don't know, I heard it," said Meg. "I heard she was to be married and you took her mother's necklace. Out of spite."

"It wasn't out of spite," he said.

"Why then?"

"It doesn't matter anymore." He fell into a broody silence, and she could see that he had closed off. Well-done, Meg. He's going to abandon you in the night for sure now. She'd heard other things, too, of course, like how he'd gotten a kitchen maid with child, though what exactly happened to the child had never quite been resolved. But mostly that he boasted about abusing the female servants of Locksley but when it came down to it, none of them could honestly admit to being used. Meg flung her hair over her right shoulder and began to braid, for lack of anything better to do.

"What were your objections, to the men you were to marry?" he asked.

Meg thought and cautiously looked up at him. "I just didn't want to be told what to do. I'd gotten tired of my father telling me what to do, all the time."

"Then why didn't you go into a convent?"

"Oh, well, then the Mother Superior'd be telling me what to do all the time."

He cracked a smile at this. She liked when he smiled like that. "Your father probably knew what was best for you."

"Not if he wanted to keep marrying me off to those blockheads. Did your father always know what was best for you?"

Guy was silent and had gone ashen. Meg put a strand of hair in her mouth and sucked, out of nervous habit. She knew it was a gesture that made her look like a child, but she couldn't help it. She was going to say that probably Isabella'd gotten tired of her brother, and her husband, telling her what to do, but decided against mentioning Isabella.

Guy rolled over onto his back and cradled his head in his arms. "People telling you what to do," he sighed.

She knew he was ruing some decision made—something with very bad consequences—but she was too timid to ask what. Besides, she didn't want him to get angry and storm off. She liked the picture she had in her mind of his coming out of the trees with his shirt in his hand, imperious and unashamed and handsome as any knight she'd ever seen. "Guy," she began. He grunted. "Promise me you won't run off in the night and abandon me."

"You have the dagger," he reminded her.

She scoffed. "Like I'm going to make you stay at knife-point. You could overpower me. But . . . I mean . . . just stay until morning."

She looked over at where he was lying on the other side of the fire. He nodded.

Meg woke. She had not realized she'd fallen asleep. She was curled up by the ashy remains of the fire, coals that were ever so slightly orange in the darkness, but which had mostly ceased to give off any heat. Her teeth were chattering, and she had fallen asleep hugging herself. She stretched her arms, wincing in pain at her aching and mauled left arm. She settled back on the ground, hunching to keep herself warm, drawing her legs up and trying to tuck her skirts about herself. She heard the horse nickering. The dagger was still tied to her kyrtle. She listened; she could hear Guy breathing.

"Guy? Are you awake?" she whispered. He grunted faintly. "Guy—I'm cold."

She sat up and peered across the darkness. She thought she could see his eyes glinting blue. "Draw closer to the fire," he whispered back.

Meg crawled toward him until she had interposed herself between him and the fire. She faced toward the ashes, hiding her face in her good sleeve, the last rays of heat wafting across the tops of her ears. "Much better," she murmured.

"Meg—that's not what I meant." She felt him speak as much as she heard him, and despite the chill and her sleepiness, his proximity thrilled her. She could feel far more heat rising off of him than she could the fire.

"I wasn't about to go sleep with the horse," she said drowsily.

He moved incrementally closer. "The horse would smell better."

"You were in that dungeon far longer than I was."

"But I took a bath."

She was silent and still, half-asleep and waiting for him to edge closer, or to pull away, or to react in some way she hadn't yet predicted. She waited.

Then she woke. Guy had fallen asleep on her hair. She gently tugged at it so she could move her head. He awoke with a snort. She lay very still. "Meg?" She pretended to be asleep. He settled back down, not quite touching her. She longed for there to be a reason to roll into his embrace—but somehow "we'd both be warmer" wouldn't cut it. The dagger was still at her hip, and Guy of Gisborne was taking no shortcuts, making no assumptions.

She wondered if he was still awake. "Just because I'm a maid and young, you know . . . it doesn't mean that I . . ."

His snoring interrupted her.

"Oh, very well." She turned back toward the fire and slept until dawn.