He reckons it was only a matter of time until his dear master invested in a change of clothing. The hem of her dress catches in the mud at her every other step, and for those that manage to evade the dirt, the tail of her cape trips her. A more practical gown was only – well, practical.
Nevertheless…
Nothing good could possibly have come out of her going into that bloody flashback of a wagon for a change in clothing. Nothing whatsoever.
She steps out with a pink skirt sweeping at her heels, and a groan slides back down his throat as he allows his head to slump back.
"Bloody hell," he mutters.
She slants a glance at him, all stretched lips, raised eyebrows, and desperation for a reaction. Will snaps his head back forward and his lips together. Bloody hell if he's going to give her the satisfaction of one.
He does his best to avoid looking at her new – old - attire. At her in general. The looks he does spare turn into glares. His looks draw her attention. His looks at her force him to realize just how much bleeding time she spends looking at him.
(There was a time when they didn't have to hide their looks at one another; when he'd smile to catch her eyes on him, and the swaying of his own gaze to her face didn't feel like a crime. He doesn't think about that time much.)
Alice's company helps. But then, she seems more keen on keeping stride with Cyrus lately, and Will can't bring himself to play the third wheel on their ever running tirade of terribly cheesy romance. It's almost more of a pain than maintaining a careful pace ahead or behind An—her majesty.
He shoots for a few steps ahead now. Enjoyable as it was to watch the untouchable queen tripping over her own skirt, the prospect of keeping that pink sodding dress in view at all times is far less attractive.
Out of all the dresses she could have chosen. He could whoosh her up a whole new wardrobe of travel-friendly gowns if she'd only just wish for one. Bring him one third closer to freedom, to not having to call her mistress, while she was at it. He nearly snorts. If he knows Ana, she won't utter the word 'wish' until bloody judgment day.
He'd complain if he wasn't certain that she'd chosen that dress only to watch its familiar fabric rile and chafe at his eyes. The expectant glances she slants towards him on occasion imply as much.
He crosses his arms and steps over a bulging root among the twigs of the forest path. If she thinks he's about to give her the satisfaction, she's gone daft.
It's possible that she's not gone quite as daft as he first thought. He comes to this realization a mere day after she first stopped by the carriage, and it's managed to settle into his gut by the following night.
Alice and Cyrus have curled up together by a tree, a tangle of cooed words and whispered exchanges (the latter featuring more than a handful of darted looks in Anastasia's direction - and another handful in his own).
He keeps to the ground, bruising his back against the forest floor with his legs kicked out in front of him and his arms crossed behind his head - and that bloody pink dress, its soot stained hem, still dancing in his view.
His tongue pushes at his teeth, which have done such an admirable job of remaining ground together thus far into the night, and he knows the battle's lost. "I could conjure you up a whole bloody chest of new dresses if you'd like. No need to dig up relics from the past." Especially not that one.
A tingling laugh that used to make his heart beat wild (back when he still had one, that is). "Please, darling. You're not getting a wish out of me that easily."
Shame. Stubborn witch.
"Besides," she's still enough in his periphery that he can't quite make out the movement of her hands, but he's near certain she just tossed her tangled blonde locks over her shoulder. "A whole chest to lug around would rather defeat the purpose of a less burdensome gown."
He snaps his fingers. "Pity that would be, if you and your pretty dresses had to wish yourself away to some nice, safe faraway castle." Before he can stop himself, he's pushed himself up on his elbows, and donned a wide-eyed look of mock epiphany. "Wait a moment… That would be sodding ideal."
It only takes a second – or however many moments it takes Anastasia to cross over to kneel beside him on the ground – for him to regret engaging her. Stupid, stupid Will Scarlet. No heart in his chest, and he still won't allow his bleeding brain to lead him.
"Don't tell me this dress bothers you." Her plump red lips nearly burst at their corners, gliding up towards her ears in a wide grin.
"As if I care what poor garment you decide to sully with your skin."
The grin doesn't falter, but Will notices – with less satisfaction than he'd like – a breath stumble in her throat. "Of course not, darling. Why, if our past means so little to you, you wouldn't care at all." Leaning down beside him, she smooths her fingers out over her skirt, much like he had done once upon a time, too many cruel endings ago for him to count.
Gritted teeth served him well before. At the moment, they seem altogether unable to restrain his tongue. Words sit at the tip of it, ready to shoot free – so he stands in a gruff motion, and relocates a few more strides away from their joke of a traveling company.
A couple that would clearly like some solitude, a narcissistic harpy of a disposed queen, and a heartless thief. Not exactly the traditional recipe for a hero's mission.
He closes his eyes, blocks out their doomed mission – and begins to regret moving so far away from the happy couple. Soft footsteps settle beside him, and fate just isn't kind enough to make them Alice's.
"Bloody hell, Ana…"
The hem of her dress brushes at his leg as she lies down beside him once more. "I'm not that easy to get rid of, Will."
No. Apparently that's just him – so easy to abandon for the sake of a shining crown and a pretty castle. Heavy jewels and a hollow title.
He clenches his eyes shut, and rolls firmly away from her.
Dreams of sweet smiles and sweeter words – hers, his, it hardly matters whose – set against a pink dress ripple through his mind, not quite dissolving with the consciousness of morning's light.
The Clothes Horse passes the next morning, and he loosens his tongue once again. "I swear, Ana, I'll give you the bloody money if you'll just buy a new dress."
She shrugs, lips irritatingly pulled upward, and strides undeterred. "No."
Several choice curse words follow. The former queen's smile widens at each one.
He wants to hit something. That wouldn't be such a sodding problem if he weren't so utterly opposed to hitting her – if she didn't look far too much like a dream, a ghost, a reminder of the heart he wants far from his chest.
"Fine." The word slips from her mouth in an arched syllable.
He nearly stumbles over his own halting feet. "You – really? Just like that?"
She's still smiling. That hardly bodes well. "Not that easily, darling." Of course not. "I'll don whatever garbs that salesman has to offer – but I'm afraid I'll require your assistance."
"Money. Right. It's yours." She's already his master; at this point, a few coins are hardly an imposition.
She waves his words away with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "Oh, that I could borrow from anyone. What I need is help getting out of this dress."
His jaw nearly unhinges. "You got into it just fine on your own. I'm sure you'll manage."
"No."
"Then ask Alice."
"No."
"Cyrus? He's gentleman enough and seems for reasons entirely his own – entirely ludicrous, mind you, but his own - not to mind you overly much."
"No. Just you, Will."
His fingers clump together in fists at his sides.
She raises an eyebrow. "I'd hurry. The Clothes Horse is nearly out of sight."
By the time he begins to curse her, he's already running after it.
Anything to escape the ghost of that dress.
He tries for brusque efficiency and utter disregard for the familiarity of her skin against his fingers.
(The bloody buttons of that forsaken dress work against the former goal, and his own muscles against the latter.)
A ways off from Cyrus and Alice, surrounded by a huddle of trees, he stands at her back, brushing stray locks of gold back over her shoulders, and wrestling with the myriad buttons set on tormenting him. Ignoring the patches of milky skin each freed button reveals, but most particularly the way his fingers catch unnecessarily against each one on their path down her spine.
"You always had the warmest fingers." The thought emerges from her mouth as a breath, so soft he might have missed it if the forest weren't so quiet.
"Funny. You were always a bit frigid, really."
When she slips against him a moment later, he's near certain it was purposeful. Her back arches against his chest, fully able to feel his breath halt at the feel of her. Her hair at his chin, her warmth – it was a lie, of course it was a lie, she's only ever been cold in manner – seeping through the fabric of his own clothing.
He pushes her away in a gruff shake, and busies himself with the remainder of her buttons.
Will steps back in a jerk upon finishing. "I'd wager you can do the rest yourself."
As if in agreement, she allows the dress to slink from her body. As if to spite him, his eyes linger on the exposed span of her skin, on the silhouette so visible beneath her slip.
His legs carry his traitorous gaze away soon enough.
(It takes barely an hour for him to realize that, pink dress or red, he still wants to stare at her.)
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time writing for Scarlet Queen, but I just love them so much. And with the promo pictures released a while back - well, they've just completely stolen my muse :)
(Also, for any readers of Misanthropic, I am so so so so sorry that it's been so long since my last update. I've been working on the next chapter, I promise - I'm not sure when it will be posted, but I fully intend to finish that story. Even if I've lost all interest from all readers by the time I finally do, it will be completed.)