Intercomm: Edge
Title: Edge
Author: secretchord
Word Count: 1,340
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Robin, Much, mention of Robin/Marian
Spoilers/Warnings: 2x13
Summary: In the aftermath of 2x13, Much tries to help Robin, and eventually is allowed to succeed.
Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood BBC.
The room was dark. He peered in, hesitating at the threshold.
“Master?”
Movement. A pale face emerged from the shadows, then a hand. Robin pushed the door open wider and Much stepped back to let him into the hall.
“Here,” Robin muttered, the word muffled as he rubbed his hands over his face. “Did you need something?”
“N-no,” Much replied, feeling as he had for the past four days: lost, and helpless. “I didn't mean to wake you. That is, if you were sleeping. I had not seen you since this morning, though, so I thought...”
Robin sighed, but it wasn't at being bothered. He was looking into some middle distance. Much might as well not have been there.
“Master?” he tried again, quietly.
A muscle in Robin's jaw ticked. He swallowed thickly, turned a faltered smile on his friend, and said, “I'm alright, Much. Only tired.”
Much nodded, torn between wanting to believe it, and knowing it couldn't be true. He put a hand up, but couldn't quite bring himself to lay it on Robin's shoulder - so it hovered there between them for a moment, until Robin, still oblivious, made his choice for him by turning and loping away, toward the deck. Much followed. He knew better than anyone how prickly the earl could be. When upset, he never wanted to be touched.
But this was so different. And Much had no idea what to do.
He'd talked about it with the others, but Allan and John had both just shrugged their shoulders and looked very sad. They didn't know, either. Maybe they didn't want to know, Much thought as he studied the slump in his master's shoulders. Maybe Robin's pain was too frightening to understand. But not knowing what he was feeling was driving Much mad. He had been constantly on edge ever since that moment in the courtyard, never able to take his eyes from Robin, feeling anxious and sick to his stomach whenever they were parted.
This was the single most important time in their lives for Much to be a friend to his master, and the fear of missing it, of not being near when he was most needed, was a constant burn in the back of his mind. At night, he would not sleep until he knew Robin was asleep, too. He stared at him in the starry dark, curled up as close to him as Robin would allow, and waited.
Every night. Four nights now, with only an occasional tear or shudder to let him know that Robin was feeling something. Much didn't know what the next moment would bring, whether more stony silence or a complete convulsion of grief. He didn't know how much longer he could handle the unknown without losing his mind. The wait was exhausting.
So lost in thought was he that he nearly bumped into Robin. He was stopped near the foot of the stairs. Much examined his face and eyes, trying to find some clue to what he was thinking. But there was only the hollowness that had been with him since Acre.
Much said nothing. He felt - and instinct had to be his guide, for there was no other - that he should be quiet, and let Robin decide what to do with the silence.
Long moments passed where Robin only breathed. The inhalations came with study, with precision, as if the process was new to him and required concentration. As if each breath was the only reason to take in the next.
At some point, his eyes - glassy, dull - turned to Much. Much met them without moving. His own breath was stuck in his chest.
Another internal prodding came, this time in favor of speech.
“Robin,” he said, slowly, carefully. Like he was talking to a child. “What are you thinking?”
Robin's perfect repetition of inhalation, exhalation was broken by a deep, slow sigh.
He swallowed. He stared at the floor. The confusion in Robin's mind was like a cloud that Much could almost see and touch.
Robin shifted his feet a scant inch. He licked his lips.
“I was thinking about her,” he said. His voice was so low it made Much move a step closer and tilt his head down to hear better. He waited, wanting to give Robin a chance to speak at his own pace.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded. Robin sighed again, and said, “Friends have died before. But this is different. I don't know...”
He quickly bowed his head, but Much had seen the pinch on his face. He put a hand on Robin's back, spread the fingers, pressed gently, as if he could press his warmth through Robin's skin.
“It is different,” he murmured. “Marian wasn't just a friend. She was...” At a loss, he shook his head and said wryly, “Well, you knew her better than I did. A lot better, if you know what I mean.”
Robin gasped a laugh. His shoulders shook bonelessly. He was too weak to laugh and stay standing upright, so he put a hand on Much's shoulder, but the hand became rigid, a claw in Much's shirt - he felt his fingernails digging into his skin - and he knew that he'd been right to make Robin laugh, because now something else was overtaking him. Much moved closer, and wrapped his arms around Robin.
And Robin began to tremble, tremble so hard that he bounced on the balls of his feet, and Much held him tighter, and Robin clung to him like a drowning man, as if his grief was a river trying to pull him under.
“I love her,” he cried into Much's neck, still shaking, still drowning, voice tight, twisted. “I love her so much, and I never....she didn't deserve it! She didn't deserve it. I can't -” a gasp; Much felt him shrink away, then return - “I can't see her face! She's so beautiful...I just want to remember her, but it's...all I see is the blood, and the grave...”
His words faded into a whine that choked on its pitch, and then he dissolved into deep sobs, and Much held on with a strength he'd never known he possessed. He rocked them side to side, rubbed his back, shifted his grip to try to cover him in warmth, smoothed his hands over every inch of his back and shoulders as if his touch could soak up the pain.
“You'll remember her,” he said once the sobs subsided, again speaking to Robin as though he was a child. “It just takes time. But you will. You'll remember her as she was - beautiful, and brave, and kind.”
He felt Robin's hands claw into his back. “Promise?” he asked, voice again winding up into a tightness that wouldn't allow him to say more.
Much nodded, relieved at having finally broken through Robin's shock, relieved that Robin was finally letting someone else take the burden of his pain.
“I promise.”
And for a long time that seemed like no time at all, Much held his master as Robin breathed, in, and then out, rigid within his arms, still clinging to Much tightly. Still drowning.
But at least with his head above water. Much breathed with him.
And when Robin finally sighed and relaxed and slid away to rub the tears from his face, Much stayed close. And Robin sighed again. He looked up the stairs while Much looked at him.
“You don't have to go up there if you don't want to.”
Robin's next exhalation carried a hint of a laugh. He put out a hand, and Much grasped it.
Robin squeezed, the desperation in his grip saying more than his words ever could. He murmured a thank you, and said, “But I think I'll be alright,” and then he started up the stairs.
And Much followed, a little more closely than before.
Author: secretchord
Word Count: 1,340
Rating: PG
Characters/Pairings: Robin, Much, mention of Robin/Marian
Spoilers/Warnings: 2x13
Summary: In the aftermath of 2x13, Much tries to help Robin, and eventually is allowed to succeed.
Disclaimer: I do not own Robin Hood BBC.
The room was dark. He peered in, hesitating at the threshold.
“Master?”
Movement. A pale face emerged from the shadows, then a hand. Robin pushed the door open wider and Much stepped back to let him into the hall.
“Here,” Robin muttered, the word muffled as he rubbed his hands over his face. “Did you need something?”
“N-no,” Much replied, feeling as he had for the past four days: lost, and helpless. “I didn't mean to wake you. That is, if you were sleeping. I had not seen you since this morning, though, so I thought...”
Robin sighed, but it wasn't at being bothered. He was looking into some middle distance. Much might as well not have been there.
“Master?” he tried again, quietly.
A muscle in Robin's jaw ticked. He swallowed thickly, turned a faltered smile on his friend, and said, “I'm alright, Much. Only tired.”
Much nodded, torn between wanting to believe it, and knowing it couldn't be true. He put a hand up, but couldn't quite bring himself to lay it on Robin's shoulder - so it hovered there between them for a moment, until Robin, still oblivious, made his choice for him by turning and loping away, toward the deck. Much followed. He knew better than anyone how prickly the earl could be. When upset, he never wanted to be touched.
But this was so different. And Much had no idea what to do.
He'd talked about it with the others, but Allan and John had both just shrugged their shoulders and looked very sad. They didn't know, either. Maybe they didn't want to know, Much thought as he studied the slump in his master's shoulders. Maybe Robin's pain was too frightening to understand. But not knowing what he was feeling was driving Much mad. He had been constantly on edge ever since that moment in the courtyard, never able to take his eyes from Robin, feeling anxious and sick to his stomach whenever they were parted.
This was the single most important time in their lives for Much to be a friend to his master, and the fear of missing it, of not being near when he was most needed, was a constant burn in the back of his mind. At night, he would not sleep until he knew Robin was asleep, too. He stared at him in the starry dark, curled up as close to him as Robin would allow, and waited.
Every night. Four nights now, with only an occasional tear or shudder to let him know that Robin was feeling something. Much didn't know what the next moment would bring, whether more stony silence or a complete convulsion of grief. He didn't know how much longer he could handle the unknown without losing his mind. The wait was exhausting.
So lost in thought was he that he nearly bumped into Robin. He was stopped near the foot of the stairs. Much examined his face and eyes, trying to find some clue to what he was thinking. But there was only the hollowness that had been with him since Acre.
Much said nothing. He felt - and instinct had to be his guide, for there was no other - that he should be quiet, and let Robin decide what to do with the silence.
Long moments passed where Robin only breathed. The inhalations came with study, with precision, as if the process was new to him and required concentration. As if each breath was the only reason to take in the next.
At some point, his eyes - glassy, dull - turned to Much. Much met them without moving. His own breath was stuck in his chest.
Another internal prodding came, this time in favor of speech.
“Robin,” he said, slowly, carefully. Like he was talking to a child. “What are you thinking?”
Robin's perfect repetition of inhalation, exhalation was broken by a deep, slow sigh.
He swallowed. He stared at the floor. The confusion in Robin's mind was like a cloud that Much could almost see and touch.
Robin shifted his feet a scant inch. He licked his lips.
“I was thinking about her,” he said. His voice was so low it made Much move a step closer and tilt his head down to hear better. He waited, wanting to give Robin a chance to speak at his own pace.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded. Robin sighed again, and said, “Friends have died before. But this is different. I don't know...”
He quickly bowed his head, but Much had seen the pinch on his face. He put a hand on Robin's back, spread the fingers, pressed gently, as if he could press his warmth through Robin's skin.
“It is different,” he murmured. “Marian wasn't just a friend. She was...” At a loss, he shook his head and said wryly, “Well, you knew her better than I did. A lot better, if you know what I mean.”
Robin gasped a laugh. His shoulders shook bonelessly. He was too weak to laugh and stay standing upright, so he put a hand on Much's shoulder, but the hand became rigid, a claw in Much's shirt - he felt his fingernails digging into his skin - and he knew that he'd been right to make Robin laugh, because now something else was overtaking him. Much moved closer, and wrapped his arms around Robin.
And Robin began to tremble, tremble so hard that he bounced on the balls of his feet, and Much held him tighter, and Robin clung to him like a drowning man, as if his grief was a river trying to pull him under.
“I love her,” he cried into Much's neck, still shaking, still drowning, voice tight, twisted. “I love her so much, and I never....she didn't deserve it! She didn't deserve it. I can't -” a gasp; Much felt him shrink away, then return - “I can't see her face! She's so beautiful...I just want to remember her, but it's...all I see is the blood, and the grave...”
His words faded into a whine that choked on its pitch, and then he dissolved into deep sobs, and Much held on with a strength he'd never known he possessed. He rocked them side to side, rubbed his back, shifted his grip to try to cover him in warmth, smoothed his hands over every inch of his back and shoulders as if his touch could soak up the pain.
“You'll remember her,” he said once the sobs subsided, again speaking to Robin as though he was a child. “It just takes time. But you will. You'll remember her as she was - beautiful, and brave, and kind.”
He felt Robin's hands claw into his back. “Promise?” he asked, voice again winding up into a tightness that wouldn't allow him to say more.
Much nodded, relieved at having finally broken through Robin's shock, relieved that Robin was finally letting someone else take the burden of his pain.
“I promise.”
And for a long time that seemed like no time at all, Much held his master as Robin breathed, in, and then out, rigid within his arms, still clinging to Much tightly. Still drowning.
But at least with his head above water. Much breathed with him.
And when Robin finally sighed and relaxed and slid away to rub the tears from his face, Much stayed close. And Robin sighed again. He looked up the stairs while Much looked at him.
“You don't have to go up there if you don't want to.”
Robin's next exhalation carried a hint of a laugh. He put out a hand, and Much grasped it.
Robin squeezed, the desperation in his grip saying more than his words ever could. He murmured a thank you, and said, “But I think I'll be alright,” and then he started up the stairs.
And Much followed, a little more closely than before.