Years and years ago, when he was a little boy, his mother had sat him down on her lap and described a land where they were going to be soon. They had lived in the south at the time, deep in the rural back lanes of Tennessee in a town called Sherridew. The name had always reminded him of Robin Hood and the kingdom of Sherwood. He liked to think that his mother was the fair Maid Marian and he would be the dashing Robin Hood. It was the name that his mother used to call him when he was older, in her quietly desperate voice: "Robin Hood, you know that it's time to go to church!"

His own Maid Marian used to tell him the tales of the dashing Robin Hood and his troupe. He never had any brothers or sisters, just siblings who had died at birth, but when he closed his eyes they were all there at the roughly hewn dining table his father had made farther before his memory reached. He once told his mother this on a dark night, the anniversary of Maid Marian's twin daughter's deaths, and she had looked at him with tears in her eyes and not said a word. He realized then that his words could hurt people as much as his hands and feet could. It was a powerful revelation.

The land that his mother had described was never as joyful as she had made it to sound out: Massachusetts. His father had bought land up in the northern region and had been determined to make it work as a farmer. The day that he had had to say goodbye to Sherridew and the graves in the back of the house holding all of his tinny Merry Men was the day that he stopped seeing them when he closed his eyes.

Years and years later, he met a real life Robin Hood who wasn't as much good as he was just there, but he would catch the glances and carefully guarded movements and think of the days before Massachusetts and yes sir, Mr. Lincoln sir and Alice and his awkward, stretching gait.

But he never would have thought that it was Robin Hood who would kiss him in the bridal suite of a Bisbee, Arizona hotel and even though he could feel the cool metal of the other mans handcuffs again the skin of his neck and resting on his collar bone, it didn't matter. Because when Dan leaned into Ben's kiss and his eyes slid shut, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the taste of another mouth on his own and tugging fingers in his hair.

And minutes later, when his blood was on the ground with the rest of his body and he met William's eyes—oh god, please please please don't be so scared, it's going to be alright—he could still feel Robin Hood standing ahead of him, his gun drawn and then he was killing Charlie Prince. Dan knew that Little John was going to die before he ever did, but it brought only shallow comfort.

Ben turned around to face him and it was nice in the shade of the 3:10 and his mouth still tasted of honey. He thought of wars and the horse that carried him through battle until it was shot down and the White House gardens. He thinks of Ben kissing his eyes until he can't think anymore.

end.