Title: Tattletale
Written for: Yuku 2nd Ficathon: Unusual Pairings
Word Count: 2,494 words
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Kate, Will, mentions Robin, Benedict Giddens; Kate/Will
Summary: She is five when their paths cross for the first time, he eight, though they've known one another by sight since before they can remember.
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers (set pre-series, follows a slightly AU line - all I've changed is how Dan Scarlett lost his hand, and that Will and Luke didn't steal the grain with Benedict Giddens)
Notes: I don't know why but thinking of a young Kate reminded me of Hermione Granger before she was friends with Ron and Harry, being a goody-two-shoes and always threatening to tell on them to a teacher.
Disclaimer: Robin Hood belongs to the BBC and Tiger Aspect. Hermione Granger is J. K. Rowling's genius and Emma Watson's talent. Written for RHFC Yuku's 2nd ficathon (Unusual Pairings) but unposted until now because it was unfinished.
Tattletale
She is five when their paths cross for the first time, he eight, though they've known one another by sight since before they can remember. It is the harvest feast at the manor, and her keen eyes see him slip outside with the air of someone who is up to no good. She purses her lips, puts on a frown, and follows him. It is not difficult for one so small as she to slip out unnoticed, and she guesses soon enough where he's going; just yesterday she had seen his father threaten his hide if he dared take up the challenge, and she recognises a kindred spirit in determination when she sees one.
The night is dark but she goes where she thinks he'll be. Sure enough she finds him, pacing underneath the massive oak and staring high into its barren branches, twiddling a piece of cloth nervously in his hands. The tree has been dead for years, struck down by lightning decades ago, and never in leaf since. Half the lower branches are rotting, and most of those that aren't are thin as spindles. No-one knows who started the dare among the young boys of the village to climb to the top and tie a pennant to it, but Kate has a fair idea. The Locksley lordling always did like showing off with his stupid bow – it would be so like him to sweep in and play the champion at his own game.
When she sees Will start towards the lowermost branch she saunters forwards, hands on hips.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demands in her most 'adult' voice.
Will jumps at her sudden appearance, and turns to face her.
"Go away, Katherine," he says. "You're not wanted here."
She walks up to him. "It's Kate," she says, prodding him in the stomach. "And I know what you're doing."
"Why did you bother asking then?"
She glares at him. "You're going to climb to the top." Her voice takes on an accusatory tone; her lips are still pursed. With all the baby fat in her face she looks more like a puffed-up fish than an intimidating adult, but Will won't be the one to tell her.
"So what if I am?" he replies. "I'm not scared."
She looks at him ever harder. "You're not allowed," she says, drawing out the last word so he knows just how much trouble he'll be in. "It's dangerous. I heard your father yesterday. He said you weren't to take up this stupid dare and kill yourself."
"I'm not trying to kill myself."
"Doesn't look like it."
She glares at him some more. He rolls his eyes and heaves a bored sigh. Once again he starts towards to tree.
"I said," she begins indignantly, "you're not allowed."
Will looks up into the branches, contemplating which look the least unstable. Perhaps if he ignores her, she will just go away.
She has no intention of being ignored. "Are you listening to me?" she says, placing herself in front of him once more. "Why are you being so stupid?"
Because maybe once someone's succeeded at climbing to the top, everyone else will lose interest. He isn't an idiot; he knows it is dangerous. But he'd heard his little brother talking of wanting to try, and he'd rather he took the risk – and the punishment – than Luke.
She can see he's still not listening. "I'll scream," she threatens. "I'll go get your father. Then you'll be in trouble!"
He doesn't doubt that she'll do it, but he grabs the first branch and hauls himself up anyway. He thinks of his brother, of his brother falling, breaking his legs – or worse. It keeps him going when she shouts for help, when he hears running footsteps as people thunder down from the manor. It drowns out his father's voice, even the wind that buffets him as he climbs higher and higher. He ties the bit of cloth to the highest branch possible, and then makes his way back down.
It earns him the thrashing of his life, but he is right. The second they see the pennant fluttering from the top branches, the younger boys lose interest in the dare, and wander elsewhere.
:::
She follows him around after that, everywhere he goes, parroting his father's rules and many a warning at him until he threatens to throw her in the village pond. He regrets it as soon as he utters the words and an expression of hurt crosses her face.
"But I only meant to help," she insists with tears welling in her eyes, and he spends the next half-hour soothing the crumples from her frowning forehead, laying rest to her fears about being thrown in the pond ("You're too skinny for the bog monsters to eat anyway"), soothing further fears ("I was kidding – there aren't any bog monsters really" and "It's perfectly safe to swim in"), as well as gently telling her she doesn't need to remind him of every single rule in the village, every minute of every day.
She looks at him with big doleful grey eyes and nods gravely when he's finished. Then, fast as she had figured out he was going to climb the tree, she beams at him, gives him a quick squeeze around the waist, and scampers off.
:::
They see each other more and more around the village as the years go by. At first it's just a smile or a nod if they pass in the road, but she grows more confident with each day that passes. She'll drag him from his friends so she can show him the latest pot she 'helped' her mother make. He's mocked by most of the boys his age, but he doesn't mind; the look on her face – an endearing mixture of pride and glee – as she shows off another misshapen clay object is worth it, and he gleans almost as much satisfaction as she does as the clay lumps start to take a more and more recognisable shape.
The local priest is teaching her to read and write, so every week she comes back from the chapel with a new chapter of the Bible to puzzle over and practice, and she bring them directly to Will. He can't read the words himself – it never came easy to him to begin with, and now he doesn't want her to know about his illiteracy – but he's more familiar with the passages than she is. When she falters on a word he prompts her, watches her face screw up in concentration as she puzzles out the letters and matches them to the words. She beams in satisfaction and continues on, leaning against him and resting the great book on his lap.
He's more saddened than she is when she no longer needs his help, and they go back to being friends from afar. He immerses himself in helping his father, learning the tricks of the trade he will undoubtedly one day follow into. They still pass in the street and nod a hasty greeting but there's little time for much else. They're not children any more, and their families need them.
At the May Festival she approaches him, bold as ever, and draws him into a dance. It's clumsy and all over the place, but it's smiles and laughs and the most fun he's had since his mother fell ill. When the dance finishes, he asks her for another, and then another, until it's well into the next day and most of the villagers have dispersed and they sit down on a bale of hay and talk until the sun rises. He's shattered tired – they both are – but it's as if they've never been apart, and it's worth every yawn just to have his friend back.
When he starts whittling wood into carvings he shows her his progress, and she's the first person he makes a gift of one to. It's a little wooden strawberry, far more intricate than she's seen him do before, and so lifelike that all it needed was some dye to stain it and it would almost look good enough to eat. She slips it into her pocket and stands on tiptoes to kiss his check, and tells him of course she and her mother would let him sell some of his pieces from their stall the next market day.
It becomes routine, and every Wednesday there's a corner of their stall where every father comes to buy a wooden toy for his children, or an ornament or trinket to take home to his wife. He's doing well enough that he could have his own stall by now, but there's something about no longer spending the day beside her that means he'll keep paying Kate's mother for his corner of the pottery stall. If it means he can share in her company, her conversation, the smiles she bestows on her customers and the grins she shares only with him, it's worth the extra money he could make by splitting away.
:::
He thinks twice about the extra money when his mother dies and his father loses a hand to a festering wound. With a new Sheriff, and new taxes, he has to put his family first, and when food is scarcer than ever and there's a new tax to be collected the next day, Benedict Giddens' hare-brained schemes start to look ever more appealing. It's safe, he assures himself, forcing down any objections. They'll never even know we were there. He needs the food, not only so he, Luke and their father can eat, but so what little coin they have left can be taken for the latest trades' tax, rather than their home and livelihood. Steal the grain, and they can eat, and survive for a little while longer.
He is surprised when he sees her approaching the Scarlett cottage; they've not spoken in a while, and they don't see each other in the market anymore.
"Don't do it," she says suddenly.
He looks up, startled, but he supposes he shouldn't be surprised that she knows, or has figured out what he's planning to do. Still, he tries to feign innocence.
"I don't know what you-"
"Yes, you do."
Her interruption is without hesitation; as usual, there will be no fooling her. He holds her reproving gaze firmly.
"Are you going tell on me to the grown-ups?"
It is a jest, but her reply is all seriousness.
"If I have to."
His resolve wavers at her disappointment in him, and his face falls. "What choice do I have?" he asks her softly.
She holds out her hand, offering him the basket she is carrying.
"What's this?" he asks, his frown darting between her face and the basket in confusion.
"Just take it," she insists, pressing it into his hands, "and promise me you won't go."
He peels back the covering to reveal a collection of food within: bread and apples and cheese, and even a small pot of what looks like honey.
"I can't take this," he says, replacing the covering and trying to hand it back. She does not take it.
"We had a good day at the market," she says, averting his eyes. It is a lie; they both know there is no such thing anymore.
"Kate, I can't-"
"Take it," she insists. "And swear to me that you will not go. Please."
It is the tone of her voice as she utters that final word, and the look in her eyes – those deep grey eyes that have been able to melt him for years – that finally convince him.
He nods his agreement and she turns to leave, but he catches her arm.
"Thank you," he says, with all the gravity of a man four times his age. He knows she must have been hoarding this all for ages, and that he will never be able to repay her.
Nevertheless, another wooden carving finds its way into her possession – this time a beautifully delicate doe to go with the magnificent stag he once made her for her birthday. He carves it even as Benedict Giddens boasts to him of his success, and delivers it with a warm hug that evening. A day later and Giddens' house is searched, the grain found, and he arrested. Two days later he is dead, hung for the crime of stealing from the Sheriff of Nottingham.
As Giddens' body is brought back to Locksley and unceremoniously dumped on the ground by his family's home, Kate steps up beside Will and slides her hand into his. She squeezes his hand lightly, and he squeezes back, and they both look on in silence as Benedict is taken away to be buried.
:::
He shifts in his seat, and she turns to look at him. Her hair glints a golden-orange in the light of the sunset, and on her face is a smile so often absent nowadays. He stands and crosses over to her, stepping up behind her and placing a tender kiss to her shoulder. He slides his cheek next to hers and wraps his arms around her, and together they turn their attention outside. Three children are running around in the grass, the littlest girl stumbling over her own feet as she tries to catch up with her elder siblings. Her parents watch as she picks herself up again, brushing her dusty hands on her skirt and affixing a most determined – and most familiar – expression on her face before hurrying after the others.
Will laughs at her obstinacy, and his breath tickles Kate's neck.
"How long do you think it will be before Ellie falls over again and blames Henry, and comes running to us?" he murmurs against her cheek.
"Ellie?" She shakes her head. "No, it will be Jane who comes running first, just you watch."
"Do you think so?" He tries to plant another kiss, just behind her ear, but she tilts her head away, resolved not to be distracted.
"Just watch," she repeats.
Sure enough, not a minute later, their eldest daughter is knocked over by their son as the two of them scrabble over the small wooden ball they are playing with, and within seconds she's running back up to the cottage as fast as her grazed knee will let her, and weeping buckets over her father's shoulder.
Several hours later, once the children are all settled down and tucked up in bed, they resume their tender embrace.
"How did you know it would be Jane?" he asks her.
"A mother always knows," she replies mysteriously. She turns her head and kisses him softly on the cheek. "And I'm always right. Haven't you learned that by now?"
His chest rumbles against her back and she laughs at the sensation, settling back against him. He tucks his neck over her shoulder and wraps his arms tighter around her, as inseparable as the children they once were.
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