Fic: Even Grasshoppers Say Sorry (Robin Hood: Much, Robin, Allan, PG)
Title: Even Grasshoppers Say Sorry
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Much, Robin, Allan
Words: 2,101
Disclaimer: Not my creations.
Spoilers: For episode 2x01.
Summary: Wherein Much can't sleep, Robin can't communicate, Allan acts as an unsuspecting sounding board, and the pot boils over.
Notes: This turned out a little strangely for me, I think the tone bounces from comedy to sadness a bit too quickly. Oh well, blame insomnia!
To sleep beneath the ground was an eerie experience. The silence was all encompassing, the darkness absolute. For the first few nights Much could not shut his eyes; he felt an almost overwhelming feeling of being trapped, as if the dirt and rock was a living thing, waiting for tiredness to overwhelm them before closing its jaws and swallowing them whole. Fortunately common sense prevailed; they were not completely closed off, after all, he knew that. Tree roots, snaking grandly like think fingers around the rock, left gaps where the night sky could just be made out, and where the cool air trickled into their secret enclosure--Will's ingenious solution at work, it would seem--and Much was soon able to sleep with hardly any worries at all.
Worries being all relative, that is. Which, seeing as they were outlaws and, strictly speaking, wanted by many powerful and not altogether genial parties, would have accounted for the disquiet of a more common man. But Much, however mild he considered his position, was far from common. Put him in this place and situation at a time in his life when he hadn't been through war, hadn't shot an arrow with blind, perfect precision, or held up a shield to protect his master mere inches from a half-dozen of Gisborne's men, and he was altogether certain that closing his eyes underground would be the least of his problems.
But here he wasn't just Much. He was part of a scheme that existed only and utterly to do good. He was...
"I am Robin Hood," Much said. "And I will protect you all."
A foot jabbed him in the calf, followed by Allan's muffled voice in the dark. "And I'm going to stuff your mouth with my last pair of socks, if I hear one more word from you. And they're not exactly clean, neither."
Much shifted in his bedroll and pursed his lips together. They might be well hidden, but the sleeping arrangements were a little...testing. Until Will was able to polish off the structural innards of this cave-world they had constructed and hack out a little more dormitory space, they were stuck with sleeping nose to foot. Which was all very well and good, except that Much tended to wriggle when he slept. And murmur. A lot. A habit that he was innocently surprised to discover had an irritable effect on the others. Allan most of all, who was typically the first one to voice his disapproval--and not altogether tactfully, as it happened.
"Why am I not surprised about that?" Much hissed back promptly. "I've known rabid dogs with better hygiene than you."
"Much..."
Robin's voice floated across the room--sleepily, but with an edge to it that would not have looked out of place, verbally speaking, as if it had been a lick of flame on an arrow's quill.
Much, momentarily chastised, glared stoically into the darkness. Although, to be fair to his master, he wasn't exactly the model of diplomacy either. There had probably been some clever reasoning behind Robin's domestic arrangements, but, quite frankly, having to sleep within the same breathing space as Allan A'Dale, was one that Much had just a bit of trouble coping with. If he wasn't such a dunce with anything that required the use of a hammer, nail or axe, he'd happily take over Will's meticulous but agonisingly slow construction of Fort Hood, and tunnel his way like some sort of demented rabbit out of the forest and into the open air, if it meant getting his own personal space back.
"I am sorry," he muttered. "It won't happen again."
But his neighbour was now silent. How surprising, Much thought. He had probably nodded off one second after voicing his hilariously unoriginal sock-in-the-mouth threat. Much listened for a few moments. And now he was snoring. Not loudly--oh, no, heaven forbid anyone else should be disturbed--but just enough to drone in his ears with all the aural beauty of a drunken grasshopper. Much doubted even his dreams would be safe now. Giant grasshoppers, all with Allan's face, grinning inanely. Much thumped quietly but with venom at the grass-filled sack he used as a pillow, and settled back down with an inward curse. It was enough to turn a sane man silly. It was enough to keep him awake until the next full moon. It was enough to...to...
Much never did think of another reason. He was asleep before it came.
~~
Of course, in the real light of day, things always looked different. One could never trust words that were said through sleep-deprivation and half-felt insults. Much chopped wood before the others woke, and thought if they were captured--if any of them were to ever fall into danger--the fact that he happened to have a serious personality clash with a fellow outlaw, one of Robin's men, seemed rather a weak and immature reason for sustaining a nocturnal battle of wills. He should be grateful for having a secure place to lie at night. He shouldn't be so...easily injured.
But he was, and he couldn't help it, any more than he could take up a bow and arrow but fire just that tiny inch far of the mark. Much had spent a great part of his life feeling that the world was all-too inclined to walk right over him, like a cavalry of foot-soldiers, ignorant to the war-torn surface they trod on. If he were a stronger man, he might roll over and ignore Allan's taunts. Weak might simply mean an arrow that snapped. Laughter might just be at the expense of somebody who had done wrong and deserved it. Life might be easier, feelings less of a turmoil. Apologies might actually be made.
His throat tightened. Since he was a young boy he'd had a mantra that went it doesn't matter what I want, I am happy to be here; I have been given a great privilege. But there were times when Much felt that this reasoning was like a rope stretched and getting longer...and just a little bit weaker every day. Petty arguments aside, it hurt. It always hurt. He might sleep it away but he always felt it again when he woke.
Much set the axe down and collected the splintered logs in the crook of his arm. As if his own mood had transferred itself to these inanimate objects, two immediately tumbled out, landing on his booted feet with a thud. He swore quietly, and was in the process of bending awkwardly to retrieve them, when a hand appeared in his line of vision.
"I'm not being funny, but did no-one teach you to split wood properly?"
He stood. Blue eyes regarded him with amusement, but there was no smile on Allan's lips, only curiosity. Much held out his arms and took the offered kindling.
"Perhaps not to your standard," he replied. "But I am sure it will do for the purpose I give it. It is only there to burn, after all."
Allan held his gaze for a moment longer, and then he nodded. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."
"And I'm not being funny," Much went on, setting off with his precariously balanced load, "but why do you care?"
"Huh?"
"Why should you bother with how I go about doing things? It is not as if you take heed of any of my advice."
There was a laugh from the other man, which fell a little threateningly in the quiet space around them. "Like what?" Allan asked, frowning, his head tipped to one side. "Shift two more inches away from your bedroll at night? Believe me, my friend, we're on the same side with that one."
Much whipped around on one heel, coming so quickly to a stop that Allan was forced into three hasty back-pedalling steps in order to avoid a collision. "I mean," he said, with exasperation, "don't treat this like a game. While Robin was literally hanging for his life, you were nestled happily in the tavern playing with cups. Do you see reason to calling me weak when we had Gisborne's merry army of lunatics trying to cut us to shreds? Is it any wonder that I happen to wield an axe with less than perfect aim? My mind never stops worrying; it is never at rest. You might have time to practice mean trickery, but I don't."
"So we're different," Allan said, holding his hands up in innocent surrender. He laughed again. "I could've told you that, mate."
Much stared back incredulously, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
This voice came from Robin, their leader seemingly appearing from nowhere. He placed his hand on Much's shoulder and gazed at the two of them curiously. "Get what, Much?" he repeated, more softly.
"I'm not..." Much pointed at Allan, as if to wipe the grin that still remained, though now, to be fair, it was far less confrontational than genuinely baffled. His voice trailed away and he glanced at Robin and jerked his shoulder clear. "I'm not what he said."
"And what's that?" Allan stared back. "So talkative you can't get your words straight? An irritable, argumentative sleeper? Someone who can't take some friendly advice?"
Much clamped his mouth shut. Without a backwards glance he tipped half the kindling into Robin's arms, and made in silence to the lid of their hideaway. There were two sets of eyes on him; he could feel them distinctly at his back. One was ignorant, and would in all likelihood stay that way. But the other, he knew, understood him perfectly.
~~
"Much."
"Do you like carrots?"
"Much, listen. Stop chopping, would you?"
He scooped up a handful of vegetables and dropped them into the pot. "I like carrots," Much said cheerily. "Carrots don't talk. They don't judge you, or natter away behind your back. They are entirely without opinion or malice. They simply exist...to grow, and be eaten. One of God's most glorious creations."
Robin crossed his arms. "You shouldn't let Allan get to you. He does no more than tease, and even then to no real cause. He does not mean what he says."
"Do you?"
The words were spoken so softly that at first he was not sure if Robin had heard. Steam bubbled from the pot; he stuck an onion and a wooden spoon into the stew and gave it a stir. If he were to look up he was certain there would be a thoughtful set to his master's eyes, his clever, alert mind turning over his friend's silence and words into a moment so brief, only the two of them alone could see it. What Much wasn't saying. What he meant; what it was that pressed at his chest and forced his concentration into a single, simple point--his knife, the coals and fire. A chore so domestic it would've made any stranger watching them smile without really knowing why. But, as ever, this covered up a lot. Robin was as adapt at keeping his feelings closed of just as Much; even more, perhaps. And a part of Much wondered if it was even worth trying, if it mightn't be easier to shrug and smile, revert to form and take confrontation away.
Robin's brow furrowed a little. "Do I mean what I say?" he repeated. In the pause that followed he mulled over the words, an act which seemed almost out of place in his usually outspoken manner. "I certainly hope so. Well---" and here a grin broke out; something of the old Robin, the rascal, "--give or take the odd conversation with certain power-hungry types on the wrong side of Nottingham. But yes, I always do. Why, Much?"
The others were milling about now; they could smell the food, and Much looked at Robin and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said.
"But this does," said Robin, with a smile. He motioned to the pot, bubbling furiously now.
It was his way of saying sorry; I understand. Much's expression of thanks was weak and faint, and slightly frantic, lost almost in the steam as he grappled in vain with the lid and utensils. Amidst the clutter he spotted Allan over Robin's shoulder, chatting away to Will.
"Even grasshoppers say sorry," he muttered, to the spoons. "More than some of us get."
This time Robin's confusion was genuine. "Grasshoppers?" he repeated.
Much smiled slightly, this time resignation, not the onions, making his eyes water.
"Oh, nothing, Master. It's just a silly dream."
Author: Jen (jazzfic)
Rating: PG
Characters: Much, Robin, Allan
Words: 2,101
Disclaimer: Not my creations.
Spoilers: For episode 2x01.
Summary: Wherein Much can't sleep, Robin can't communicate, Allan acts as an unsuspecting sounding board, and the pot boils over.
Notes: This turned out a little strangely for me, I think the tone bounces from comedy to sadness a bit too quickly. Oh well, blame insomnia!
To sleep beneath the ground was an eerie experience. The silence was all encompassing, the darkness absolute. For the first few nights Much could not shut his eyes; he felt an almost overwhelming feeling of being trapped, as if the dirt and rock was a living thing, waiting for tiredness to overwhelm them before closing its jaws and swallowing them whole. Fortunately common sense prevailed; they were not completely closed off, after all, he knew that. Tree roots, snaking grandly like think fingers around the rock, left gaps where the night sky could just be made out, and where the cool air trickled into their secret enclosure--Will's ingenious solution at work, it would seem--and Much was soon able to sleep with hardly any worries at all.
Worries being all relative, that is. Which, seeing as they were outlaws and, strictly speaking, wanted by many powerful and not altogether genial parties, would have accounted for the disquiet of a more common man. But Much, however mild he considered his position, was far from common. Put him in this place and situation at a time in his life when he hadn't been through war, hadn't shot an arrow with blind, perfect precision, or held up a shield to protect his master mere inches from a half-dozen of Gisborne's men, and he was altogether certain that closing his eyes underground would be the least of his problems.
But here he wasn't just Much. He was part of a scheme that existed only and utterly to do good. He was...
"I am Robin Hood," Much said. "And I will protect you all."
A foot jabbed him in the calf, followed by Allan's muffled voice in the dark. "And I'm going to stuff your mouth with my last pair of socks, if I hear one more word from you. And they're not exactly clean, neither."
Much shifted in his bedroll and pursed his lips together. They might be well hidden, but the sleeping arrangements were a little...testing. Until Will was able to polish off the structural innards of this cave-world they had constructed and hack out a little more dormitory space, they were stuck with sleeping nose to foot. Which was all very well and good, except that Much tended to wriggle when he slept. And murmur. A lot. A habit that he was innocently surprised to discover had an irritable effect on the others. Allan most of all, who was typically the first one to voice his disapproval--and not altogether tactfully, as it happened.
"Why am I not surprised about that?" Much hissed back promptly. "I've known rabid dogs with better hygiene than you."
"Much..."
Robin's voice floated across the room--sleepily, but with an edge to it that would not have looked out of place, verbally speaking, as if it had been a lick of flame on an arrow's quill.
Much, momentarily chastised, glared stoically into the darkness. Although, to be fair to his master, he wasn't exactly the model of diplomacy either. There had probably been some clever reasoning behind Robin's domestic arrangements, but, quite frankly, having to sleep within the same breathing space as Allan A'Dale, was one that Much had just a bit of trouble coping with. If he wasn't such a dunce with anything that required the use of a hammer, nail or axe, he'd happily take over Will's meticulous but agonisingly slow construction of Fort Hood, and tunnel his way like some sort of demented rabbit out of the forest and into the open air, if it meant getting his own personal space back.
"I am sorry," he muttered. "It won't happen again."
But his neighbour was now silent. How surprising, Much thought. He had probably nodded off one second after voicing his hilariously unoriginal sock-in-the-mouth threat. Much listened for a few moments. And now he was snoring. Not loudly--oh, no, heaven forbid anyone else should be disturbed--but just enough to drone in his ears with all the aural beauty of a drunken grasshopper. Much doubted even his dreams would be safe now. Giant grasshoppers, all with Allan's face, grinning inanely. Much thumped quietly but with venom at the grass-filled sack he used as a pillow, and settled back down with an inward curse. It was enough to turn a sane man silly. It was enough to keep him awake until the next full moon. It was enough to...to...
Much never did think of another reason. He was asleep before it came.
~~
Of course, in the real light of day, things always looked different. One could never trust words that were said through sleep-deprivation and half-felt insults. Much chopped wood before the others woke, and thought if they were captured--if any of them were to ever fall into danger--the fact that he happened to have a serious personality clash with a fellow outlaw, one of Robin's men, seemed rather a weak and immature reason for sustaining a nocturnal battle of wills. He should be grateful for having a secure place to lie at night. He shouldn't be so...easily injured.
But he was, and he couldn't help it, any more than he could take up a bow and arrow but fire just that tiny inch far of the mark. Much had spent a great part of his life feeling that the world was all-too inclined to walk right over him, like a cavalry of foot-soldiers, ignorant to the war-torn surface they trod on. If he were a stronger man, he might roll over and ignore Allan's taunts. Weak might simply mean an arrow that snapped. Laughter might just be at the expense of somebody who had done wrong and deserved it. Life might be easier, feelings less of a turmoil. Apologies might actually be made.
His throat tightened. Since he was a young boy he'd had a mantra that went it doesn't matter what I want, I am happy to be here; I have been given a great privilege. But there were times when Much felt that this reasoning was like a rope stretched and getting longer...and just a little bit weaker every day. Petty arguments aside, it hurt. It always hurt. He might sleep it away but he always felt it again when he woke.
Much set the axe down and collected the splintered logs in the crook of his arm. As if his own mood had transferred itself to these inanimate objects, two immediately tumbled out, landing on his booted feet with a thud. He swore quietly, and was in the process of bending awkwardly to retrieve them, when a hand appeared in his line of vision.
"I'm not being funny, but did no-one teach you to split wood properly?"
He stood. Blue eyes regarded him with amusement, but there was no smile on Allan's lips, only curiosity. Much held out his arms and took the offered kindling.
"Perhaps not to your standard," he replied. "But I am sure it will do for the purpose I give it. It is only there to burn, after all."
Allan held his gaze for a moment longer, and then he nodded. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose."
"And I'm not being funny," Much went on, setting off with his precariously balanced load, "but why do you care?"
"Huh?"
"Why should you bother with how I go about doing things? It is not as if you take heed of any of my advice."
There was a laugh from the other man, which fell a little threateningly in the quiet space around them. "Like what?" Allan asked, frowning, his head tipped to one side. "Shift two more inches away from your bedroll at night? Believe me, my friend, we're on the same side with that one."
Much whipped around on one heel, coming so quickly to a stop that Allan was forced into three hasty back-pedalling steps in order to avoid a collision. "I mean," he said, with exasperation, "don't treat this like a game. While Robin was literally hanging for his life, you were nestled happily in the tavern playing with cups. Do you see reason to calling me weak when we had Gisborne's merry army of lunatics trying to cut us to shreds? Is it any wonder that I happen to wield an axe with less than perfect aim? My mind never stops worrying; it is never at rest. You might have time to practice mean trickery, but I don't."
"So we're different," Allan said, holding his hands up in innocent surrender. He laughed again. "I could've told you that, mate."
Much stared back incredulously, shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get what?"
This voice came from Robin, their leader seemingly appearing from nowhere. He placed his hand on Much's shoulder and gazed at the two of them curiously. "Get what, Much?" he repeated, more softly.
"I'm not..." Much pointed at Allan, as if to wipe the grin that still remained, though now, to be fair, it was far less confrontational than genuinely baffled. His voice trailed away and he glanced at Robin and jerked his shoulder clear. "I'm not what he said."
"And what's that?" Allan stared back. "So talkative you can't get your words straight? An irritable, argumentative sleeper? Someone who can't take some friendly advice?"
Much clamped his mouth shut. Without a backwards glance he tipped half the kindling into Robin's arms, and made in silence to the lid of their hideaway. There were two sets of eyes on him; he could feel them distinctly at his back. One was ignorant, and would in all likelihood stay that way. But the other, he knew, understood him perfectly.
~~
"Much."
"Do you like carrots?"
"Much, listen. Stop chopping, would you?"
He scooped up a handful of vegetables and dropped them into the pot. "I like carrots," Much said cheerily. "Carrots don't talk. They don't judge you, or natter away behind your back. They are entirely without opinion or malice. They simply exist...to grow, and be eaten. One of God's most glorious creations."
Robin crossed his arms. "You shouldn't let Allan get to you. He does no more than tease, and even then to no real cause. He does not mean what he says."
"Do you?"
The words were spoken so softly that at first he was not sure if Robin had heard. Steam bubbled from the pot; he stuck an onion and a wooden spoon into the stew and gave it a stir. If he were to look up he was certain there would be a thoughtful set to his master's eyes, his clever, alert mind turning over his friend's silence and words into a moment so brief, only the two of them alone could see it. What Much wasn't saying. What he meant; what it was that pressed at his chest and forced his concentration into a single, simple point--his knife, the coals and fire. A chore so domestic it would've made any stranger watching them smile without really knowing why. But, as ever, this covered up a lot. Robin was as adapt at keeping his feelings closed of just as Much; even more, perhaps. And a part of Much wondered if it was even worth trying, if it mightn't be easier to shrug and smile, revert to form and take confrontation away.
Robin's brow furrowed a little. "Do I mean what I say?" he repeated. In the pause that followed he mulled over the words, an act which seemed almost out of place in his usually outspoken manner. "I certainly hope so. Well---" and here a grin broke out; something of the old Robin, the rascal, "--give or take the odd conversation with certain power-hungry types on the wrong side of Nottingham. But yes, I always do. Why, Much?"
The others were milling about now; they could smell the food, and Much looked at Robin and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said.
"But this does," said Robin, with a smile. He motioned to the pot, bubbling furiously now.
It was his way of saying sorry; I understand. Much's expression of thanks was weak and faint, and slightly frantic, lost almost in the steam as he grappled in vain with the lid and utensils. Amidst the clutter he spotted Allan over Robin's shoulder, chatting away to Will.
"Even grasshoppers say sorry," he muttered, to the spoons. "More than some of us get."
This time Robin's confusion was genuine. "Grasshoppers?" he repeated.
Much smiled slightly, this time resignation, not the onions, making his eyes water.
"Oh, nothing, Master. It's just a silly dream."