i. long I stood, and looked down one as far as I could
Deep in the afternoon, the thunder gave way to rain – not the nurturing spring shower Regina had been hoping for but an onslaught, drops falling thick and fast enough through the canopy of leaves above her to bring a lesser rain of pine needles down on her head, and Regina was left cursing as she ran for cover.
She should have taken a cue from the rabbits and gone to ground when the winds had first changed, carrying the earthy smell of rain and a slight chill, but she had snares to check and hemp to gather for new bowstrings, and if she returned to camp without a few furs to barter in the marketplace, it would be a whole week before she could try again. Besides, a storm like this couldn't sustain itself for long. (So she told herself.)
A jagged rock face broke through the line of trees to her left, not large but promising enough to take a closer look. All she needed was a dry crevice, a crawlspace – something to keep the rain off her back until the weather calmed.
The near edge of the rock was pitted and mossy and miserably impenetrable, and Regina ground her teeth in frustration as she rounded the other side. Her clothes were starting to cling in awkward places, her steps felt heavier, water slipped past her collar and trailed a cool finger down her spine, and just as she was beginning to wonder if the search was worth continuing, she spotted it: a slender eyelet in the rocks, tall and crooked and deep enough that she couldn't see more than two feet past the entrance.
She shuffled sideways to fit her shoulders through the opening and was relieved to find that the space opened up considerably after its narrow mouth. The rock around her dulled the sound of the storm, and she relaxed a bit as she backed farther inside, facing the light until her eyes adjusted. One foot behind the other, hands out to meet the wall that had to be there, and then it was, something solid and warm and a masculine voice booming out, "Well, this is – "
Regina jolted forward, one hand falling to the dagger at her waist and flipping it up and out as she spun, thrusting defensively into the darkness. She pulled back before she made contact, more out of her inability to see what she was aiming for than any sense of restraint, but the man's sharp intake of breath told her she was close to hitting something vital. She smirked despite herself.
"'Unexpected' doesn't seem to, ah, cover it," he finished, audibly chagrined.
She'd never be able to make him out clearly, not in this light, but she was beginning to catch the lines of his body: a full quiver jutting up over one shoulder, eyes that shone out of the shadows – like a watchful animal – when he moved his head just so, the strong slope of a nose, and, underneath, a suggestion of lips. Lips, and a smirk, that did not look nearly as concerned as they should be.
Regina pressed her advantage, reaching until her dagger found the soft spot under his jaw and pushed up his chin, so that he had to work to look at her.
"When were you planning on telling me that someone was already in here?" she demanded.
He licked at his bottom lip before he spoke, and she felt his neck cord and flex against her blade as he swallowed. "I was waiting for the opportune moment. I didn't want to alarm you." His words were slightly strangled, but there was a certain detached humor in them that irked her. "I may have misjudged that one."
"You think?"
"If you put the knife away, I'm sure you'll find that there's room enough for us both."
Regina shrugged one shoulder. "I'm comfortable."
He sighed, less amused now. "Truly, I mean you no harm. I'm a…traveler like yourself, just looking for refuge from the storm."
"Travelers don't end up in caves three kilometers from the Queen's roads," she sneered, and she wondered if he could see her bared teeth in the dark. "And they don't smell like forest."
That pulled a laugh out of him, and his head fell forward slightly, the skin of his throat catching around the point of her dagger but not yet drawing blood.
"You wound me, m'lady," he said, and she couldn't abide the thought of him teasing her without getting his due. His laugh turned into a hiss when she nicked him above the adam's apple, sending a thin stream of red towards his collar. "I didn't mean that literally," he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.
"You're an outlaw."
"You're not?"
"Even less reason to trust you," she countered, scowling. "You're the competition."
He didn't seem to have anything to say to that, and they spent the next long minute breathing, studying each other obliquely – both looking and trying not to be caught looking, until their gazes finally flicked together, and Regina realized just how close she was standing to him.
A little unsure why she wasn't disarming the man and stealing his purse, she sheathed her blade and backed away until she hit the rough edges of the entrance. He made no attempt to follow her, hands pressed flatly against the wall behind him, and it wasn't trust that she felt, not by a long shot, but some inexplicable notion that he wanted the distance between them as much as she did.
The rain was still falling fiercely outside – if anything, it had worsened – and she cursed it, for keeping her stuck in a cave when she could be doing a thousand more practical things than thinking about the intentions of a stranger. She shivered, noticing the dankness of the cave for the first time, and crossed her arms tightly to hold the chill at bay.
"Unseasonably cold, isn't it?" the man asked lightly, and she cursed him too.
"I'm fine," she gritted, but he was already laying his quiver aside and fumbling with the clasp of his cloak, tugging it from his shoulders. He balled it up and tossed it to her, hitting her in the chest, and she had no choice but to gather it against her, staring dumbly at the fabric in her hands.
"Come now," he grinned, "it doesn't bite. I won't even make you say 'thank you.'"
Regina was tempted to fling the cloak back at him and give him an earful about how she hadn't asked for this, how she didn't need anything from him, but the cloak was still warm from his body, and this time practicality was winning out over pride.
He did smell like forest – she hadn't been exaggerating about that – the sharp smells of campfire and pine enfolding her as she wrapped the cloak around herself like a hooded shawl. He watched her with satisfaction, rubbing distractedly at the blood she had left on him and smearing it across his throat, the action carnal and strangely alluring in the dim light.
He was off his guard, bow and quiver laying out of easy reach, and Regina turned from him, ducking through the eyelet in the rocks before he could do more than open his mouth. Through the beat of the rain she heard him call, once, "The very clothes off my back, m'lady?"
She shouldn't stop, shouldn't give him the least opportunity to overtake her, but she would not let him have the last word – she would take all or nothing.
"Can't steal what's been given to you."
The forest was hers, and if he dared to follow her, she would lose him among the rows of birches, or in the bogs, and the next time they met (and there would be a next time, of that she was sure, he would come for her and his) she wouldn't hold herself back.
A cloak, and a single trickle of blood, would count for nothing at all when she was through with him.
…
ii. then took the other, as just as fair
Robin had learned long ago that some men could be bought, and the Queen's men were no different.
One Black Guard or another could be persuaded to part with the kind of information an outlaw found useful – the names of nobles and merchants traveling into the kingdom to pay tribute to the Queen, the routes and times of each journey, how many guards each party could afford – and all it cost him was the weight of each report in ale or gold.
And that was why Robin had been perched on this hillock for the last forty minutes, sweating and itching among the tall grasses that surrounded him, wondering exactly when Lord Something-or-Other was going to show his face.
He sat near a bend in the road, where one side dipped down into a shallow stream, offering the first chance for travelers to water their horses after miles of rigorous terrain. With any luck, this lord would stop like all the others, and Robin would be able to swoop in and away while the coachmen were still re-harnessing the horses. And if they didn't stop, he still had the advantage of elevation and familiarity with the land and his own unshakable intent.
A few particularly long ferns were tickling the side of his jaw, and he swatted at them irritably, almost missing the sound of hoofbeats and carriage wheels approaching from the south. He stilled and waited, gauging the speed of the coach in case he needed to jump for it, but already the horses were being reined in, slowed to a walk, and voices rang out, calling back and forth, as men dressed in blue silk began to dismantle the harness.
Three armored guards, one mounted and two on foot, lurked near the front of the coach, looking bored, and Robin calculated his course, who he needed to engage and who he could evade, and chose his moment carefully, watching as the mounted guard spurred his own steed to the waterline.
He slid one foot forward, ready to strike, only for a flicker of color in the corner of his vision to stop him cold. Something – someone – had just darted from tree to rock, too quick for him to catch, and he scanned the hills to his right until he found her, her, again.
He knew her in profile immediately, the woman who had graced many a wanted poster alongside him and, if he was not mistaken, had just recently held him at knifepoint and stolen his best cloak. He hadn't been sure of it in the dimness of the cave, where he had only been able to identify her as sharp (in eyes and voice and blade), but there were few female outlaws at work, and even fewer who were as feared as Regina Mills. Or as beautiful.
She was going to get them both killed.
She too had been waiting for the mounted knight to leave his post, but she was moving carelessly, too openly for a thief of her reputation, and Robin realized that the angle of her descent limited her view of two full sides of the coach – she had never seen the guards at the front, and she was going to run straight into them.
If she alerted the guards, he would be in just as much danger as she (grass, no matter how tall and cumbersome, would not hide him from their swords), and they would both lose out on an easy bounty. He wasn't one to share spoils – spoils which were rightfully his, given how many tankards of ale he had had to invest in last night – with a rival, but keeping his head firmly attached to his shoulders was worth the loss of a handful or two of gold.
Cursing under his breath, because there wasn't time for this, not when she kept inching over her rock like she was going to take flight any second, he nocked an arrow and prayed she would have the sense not to move.
The arrow struck cleanly against stone, breaking its shaft, mere inches from Regina's head, and when she whirled to trace the path of the arrow back to him, Robin desperately signaled for her to be quiet and wait for him.
It was madness to break cover for a rock that could barely conceal them both, and yet what choice did he have? Scrambling through the undergrowth, bruising knees and hands as he fought to stay low, and then he was breathless beside her, the men below somehow none the wiser.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she snapped, eyes ablaze with fury, and, frankly, he was surprised there weren't more weapons involved.
"Stopping you before this turns into a suicide mission." She opened her mouth to object, and Robin grabbed her roughly by the arm instead, pulling her close to him, and gestured to the amorphous shadows that he would have overlooked himself if he hadn't seen them from another angle. "Guards. Just there."
A pause, as she studied the scene; then, stubbornly, "I know what I'm doing."
"You still can't say 'thank you,' can you?"
"I liked you better when I had a knife at your throat."
Her jaw was set, a small frown crinkling her nose and forehead together, and, oh, but she looked kissable when she was angry.
"So you do know who I am," he teased, oddly delighted that he had made an impression on her, however unflattering it might be. "Look, we only have a few minutes to pull this off – "
"We?" she fumed. "You're insane. You're insane, and you are not taking this job from me."
"Consider it recompense for my cloak. Now, do you want to take the guards or the gold?"
"Gold," she answered smartly, and Robin took the proud tilt of her chin as a warning to watch his own back, as well as the bounty. She had disappeared on him once before, and, as loath as he was to admit it, there was more than a little truth to the phrase no honor among thieves.
She took point as they stalked farther down the hill, shadowing the lazy movements of the guards, and then stopped to look back at him and whisper, almost regretfully, "Just…don't get in my way."
She didn't wait for him, and it was her departing back that received his answer, the wry shake of his head. "I wouldn't dream of it."
They ran for opposite ends of the coach, Regina outpacing him so much that the two guards had already started at the sounds of disturbance within – scuffling, breaking glass, and the distinctive scream of a noblewoman – and Robin came up behind them unnoticed.
He slammed a kick into the back of one guard's knee, where the metal joint didn't quite sit correctly, and used gravity and the weight of the man's armor to drive his head into the ground. Untangling a mace from limp fingers, he threw it into the chest of the other man, fast approaching from the right. The mace glanced off his breastplate, but the man stagger-stepped, off-balance long enough for Robin to send him crashing backward with a second clout, a vicious block to his shoulder that left Robin's arm numb but the guard – for the moment – immobilized.
Regina kicked the carriage door open, hands occupied with dagger and velvet bag respectively, head sweeping back and forth to clear her sightline and looking less-than-pleased to see that Robin was already there, waiting for her.
"After you, m'lady," he drawled as he extended his hand to her, and though she rolled her eyes, she stuffed the top of the bag through her belt and let him pull her down, landing nimbly beside him.
The guards were still moving dazedly on the ground, and Robin nudged Regina past them, aiming to hit the nearest edge of forest and lose themselves there, but a horse, throwing up sprays of dirt as it was harshly reined to a stop, suddenly cut off their path.
The knight leveled his sword at them, danced his mount closer, and Robin dragged Regina behind him, warily keeping his body between her and the horse.
"Distract him," she muttered in his ear, and he felt her hands on his back urging him forward.
He didn't have time to wonder if this was Regina's gambit, sacrificing him while she made off with the money and her life, and he drew his own dagger into his hand, grimacing at the obvious disparity in the weapons between them. The knight grinned wickedly down at him, raising his arm to strike, and Robin feinted right before diving left, ducking under the horse's neck.
He seized the reins from underneath, bearing down with all his might, and – though he had to step quickly to avoid the horse's distressed gait – he saw the knight reel forward in the saddle as he tried to regain his horse's head and wield his sword at the same time.
Robin hauled on the reins again, pulling the horse into a tight circle, only to nearly drop them partway through their awkward circuit when Regina reappeared, mouth drawn thin with lethal focus and anticipation, the mark of a hunter about to claim her kill.
A stone the size of her fist sped out of her slingshot and, with a magnificent clang!, staved in the knight's metal nose-guard (and, presumably, the nose underneath, Robin thought). The force of the blow tore the man from the saddle, and, beyond the rise and fall of his breathing, he made no movement after he hit the ground.
"C'mon," Robin called as he switched his grip on the reins to one more comfortable for both of them and calmed the beast with soft words until Regina stood beside them. He motioned for her to mount, quelling her protest with a curt, "You want to outrun them, don't you?"
She took the reins from him and stepped into the stirrup, swinging herself up and over while Robin steadied her waist with one hand. His touch lingered even after she had found her seat, and she looked at him, puzzled, trying to cover it with indignation.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice rough.
"Giving you a head start," he said, stepping back as his hand came down on the horse's rump, spurring them into a startled gallop.
He watched as Regina craned around to look back at him, the unreadable expression on her face as she was carried away from him, soon no more than a flash of grey and the sound of hooves and then not even that.
He turned in the opposite direction, smoothing velvet between his fingers and calculating its contents as he let the forest swallow him, and wished he could see her face when she realized that he had settled his debts, and settled them well.
A cloak and a horse weighed against a bag of gold, and if she found her share lacking, well, then, he owed her a drink whenever she caught up to him.
…
iii. and having perhaps the better claim
Regina ripped another wanted poster from a tree and contemplated the many ways she could destroy it.
She had always been in the habit of collecting as many as she could find and burning them – if the Black Guards didn't know what she looked like, it would be that much harder for them to kill her – but that didn't feel like a violent-enough end for him, the absolutely infuriating man who seemed to be hounding her through the forest and, to her everlasting chagrin, just happened to be the most notorious outlaw in the realm.
Yes, she had been engaged in a game of banditry one-upmanship with Robin Hood himself without realizing it, until he had distracted her with a skittish horse and hands in places they had no business being and cheated her of the gold she had risked her neck for.
She had somehow failed to recognize him despite seeing his face nailed to trees almost as frequently as hers was, though, really, all that meant was that the artist tasked with drawing the portraits of criminals had failed miserably at his job. The Robin clenched in her fist was dark-eyed, verminous, almost fox-like with his pointed chin and moustaches, and there was nothing in him of the bold, laughing, entirely-too-handsome-for-his-own-good man she had met.
The horse – her horse now, Regina supposed – bumped his nose against her elbow as if to chide her, and she folded the poster and tucked it away inside her tunic. Perhaps she would save this one for target practice.
She walked on, tugging gently at the worn reins in her hand, and the grey followed at her shoulder. She had sold his saddle and bridle immediately – lots of people had horses, but few had leather tack as fine as that, and she had a large enough price on her head as it was – and he seemed happier for it, freed from the restraints of his former master.
She had almost sold him as well, knowing he would turn her a tidy profit, but there was something about the way he had come under her care, the question of whether he had stolen her or she had stolen him, that had stopped her hand. He was a companion of sorts, as pathetic as that sounded, and undoubtedly he would prove his usefulness sooner or later.
(She definitely hadn't kept him because he reminded her of a certain blue-eyed thief, and she wasn't so stupidly sentimental as to call him Bandit when no one else was around. Certainly not.)
There had been a flurry of activity in the woods that morning, centered around the Queen's castle but now starting to ripple outward into the darker windings of the forest. Regina had assumed it was a hunt at first, with trumpets and bellowing hounds, but the more she listened, the more it sounded like discord and frenzy instead of the predictable advance of a hunting party.
The commotion made her uneasy, and she decided to take a closer look, turning it into a longer errand of letting Bandit graze, collecting wanted posters for kindling, and checking and resetting her snares along the western borders of the wood.
She had been edging closer and closer to the castle for twenty minutes with no better understanding of what had happened, and she was beginning to wonder if she had missed all the excitement when a rustling emerged from the trees ahead.
Bandit's ears pricked towards the sound, and she laid a quietening hand on his neck. The Black Guards weren't known for their subtlety, and she didn't think she was walking into an ambush, but this was not the time to be reckless with her life.
She approached cautiously, eyes raised to locate the source of the sound, and – oh, gods, this was better than anything she could have dreamed up. Struggling and swaying and cursing in a heavy rope net of her own design was none other than Hood himself.
Regina stepped forward, as yet unnoticed by her rather preoccupied rival, and raised her voice to ring through the little clearing. "Let me guess: you're the fox the Queen has set her hounds on."
Robin tensed at her voice, and by the time he clumsily turned to face her, his face was red with exertion and embarrassment. That didn't stop him from grinning down at her, all dimples and self-deprecating charm, and the force of it made her stomach clench.
"In so many words, yes," he chuckled. "And you, m'lady? Are you part of the hunt?"
She reached for one of the ropes that hung low, anchoring the net, and ran her fingers along it, not quite able to chase the satisfied smile from her lips. "Unwittingly, it seems, for I'm the one who has captured you."
He cocked an eyebrow at her, and despite his nonchalance, she could tell that she had surprised him.
"You have my compliments. It is a cunning trap," he said, giving her a little nod. "Dare I ask what you'll do with me?"
"You dare a lot, thief."
He caught the dangerous undertone of her words, and he blew out another laugh – this one a shade more uncomfortable, more desperate, and she was pleased that he understood her so well.
"That stunt I pulled is coming back to bite me in the arse, is it?"
"You gave me the head start. I took it." Regina shrugged. "Can't help it if you fell behind."
He rolled his eyes, and she bristled. He was still acting like this was only a game, that besting each other was all that mattered, that she was so petty as to weigh his life against one sack of coins.
"I can give you the gold, m'lady, if that's what you want," Robin sighed. "Believe me, I don't leave my debts unpaid."
"It's not about the gold."
"Then what is it about?"
She didn't have an answer for him, only a feeling, a nebulous understanding that ran through her veins as naturally as blood, that whatever was between them (what always had been) was more, so much more than this.
They were both overly aware of the sounds of the forest, of the militant tramp of feet and muffled shouts of command that seemed to be circling ever nearer, and there was a long moment of avoidance, of breathing, before Robin tried once again.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not hang around for the Black Guards lest they actually, you know, hang me."
She hummed, throwing the reins over Bandit's head, and, one hand fisted in his mane, vaulted herself up onto his back.
"This is me asking you for help," he said.
"I know."
His face fell, like he still thought she was going to ride away from him, and Regina sighed as she pulled her dagger from her belt, muttering something about a thick-headed prince of thieves and his code as she sawed through the length of rope holding him aloft.
Robin crashed to the ground in a graceless flail of limbs, landing so heavily that Regina winced on his behalf, and she could see that he was more than dazed as he kicked free of the net and staggered upright.
He had to lean against a tree to look at her, eyes unfocused – the blue somehow duller, though it could be a trick of the light – but smile just as blinding as he panted, "Thank you, m'lady. Your assistance is most appreciated."
He went on standing there, and she couldn't very well ride away now, because the idiot had actually hurt himself, and she hadn't gone to the trouble of rescuing him only for him to wander straight into the arms of the enemy as soon as she turned her back.
She urged Bandit forward and held out a hand, saying, "Come on. You want to outrun them, don't you?"
Robin frowned, perhaps trying to puzzle out exactly why those words sounded so familiar, and Regina's heart ticked a little faster, not because his slow-blinking bewilderment was cute (goddammit) but because she really was nervous about the Black Guards stumbling upon them, and the sooner she could convince Robin to come with her, the better.
She bent low over the horse's neck and touched Robin's shoulder to redirect him.
"Does m'lord need a boost?" she drawled, raising an expectant eyebrow and hoping he wasn't too concussed to pick up on her gentle mockery.
Dimples creased his face again, and he shook his head lightly, fondly. "And they say chivalry is dead."
He mounted behind her, managing to nearly unhorse them both when he misjudged the height of his jump and had to suddenly, roughly, snag the back of Regina's shirt to stop himself from sliding back to the ground.
"Sorry," he muttered as soon as he had righted himself, relaxing his grip and letting his hands find a more natural resting place for riding. His fingers settled delicately just under her ribs, and she felt herself surrounded by his heat: his legs tucked just behind hers, his front all but flush against her back, his breath disturbing the hairs that had fallen out of her braid, stirring them against her cheek.
She wheeled Bandit around, checking his speed at first while they all adjusted to balancing and moving together, and coaxed him into a canter. None of them were used to riding double, and despite the evenness of the horse's gait, she and Robin jostled against each other until he closed his arms more firmly around her waist and let his body rock with hers. He muttered something again, questioning, but the wind was in her ears, and she could only shake her head, praying he wouldn't let go.
It wasn't much good to flee from something without a place to flee to, and Regina was thankful that the 'hidden' location of the Merry Men's camp was perhaps the worst-kept secret in the entire kingdom. She had never ventured there herself, knowing the way was well-guarded and full of traps for unwanted guests – haunted, according to some local lore – but she knew which paths led to that particular corner of forest.
They skirted around the main roads, sticking to the older, overgrown merchant's trails that had fallen out of use in recent years, a longer way but more secure. They rode in silence, comfortable but for the fact that there was nothing to distract her from his heartbeat, pressed so close to her own she could have sworn her blood ran at its command, and she wondered if it was the same for him.
Soon, too soon, they stood at the mouth of another path, unassuming but different, forbidden somehow, and she reined Bandit in, rubbing his neck so she wouldn't have reason to look at Robin.
"This is as far as I go."
"Heard the stories, have you?" he asked, amused. "There are exceptions to every rule, m'lady, and nothing will harm you so long as I'm with you."
"I'm not in the mood for games, Hood. This is as far as I go."
He slid to the ground but didn't move away, his actions hesitant and artless as he toyed with the leather strap of the bridle, chewed at his lower lip, before he glanced up at her in askance.
"At least stay for supper."
"It's midday."
"A drink, then?"
"I don't think you, of all people, should be drinking right now."
"Perhaps you're right," he said, rueful but laughing, and finally stepped back. "Some evening, then. I'll tell my men to expect you."
Regina, already turning Bandit towards home, snapped her head around to argue. "There's no need – "
"It's done, m'lady," Robin called, looking rather pleased with himself as he backed down the path, weaving just unsteadily enough that she might have cautioned him under other circumstances, if she had reason to care whether he could find his own way – which she didn't, not at all.
She dug her heels in, pressed the horse into a walk that quickened into a gallop, aware all the while that Robin was watching her, and she trained her eyes forward, defiant to the last, desperate not to let herself turn back for even an instant.
But somewhere in her heart lived a traitor, and she let her head turn, seeing the light in his eyes (sun breaking through clouds to touch the sea) and the hand raised in farewell and knowing that she had walked straight into his trap after all, wondering if she would ever dare ask him to cut her free.
…
iv. how way leads on to way
It was not the first time he had felt uneasy about a job – something about the alertness of the guards, today of all days, rang warning bells – nor the first time pride had outweighed his better instincts, but Robin could truthfully say that he had never anticipated that a child's wardrobe would be the difference between his life and his death.
The sliver of light its doors admitted fell across his face, and he awaited the moment when some moderately-observant guard would catch his eye through the crack and be the end of him. He craved the freedom to move, to find a position less damning to his safety and to his joints, but since he couldn't even risk taking particularly deep breaths, shifting his weight was out of the question until he was sure the patrol had moved on.
It was something to feel both exposed and oppressively cramped, to both question his choice of a hiding place and be absurdly grateful that the wardrobe, small as it was, had been placed just there and left empty.
The sudden clip of boots against the floor made Robin stiffen and promptly bite back a curse as he knocked his head against the wooden ceiling. The footsteps slowed, and he almost closed his eyes in anticipation of being discovered, unable to bear the tension any longer.
It wasn't the black uniform of a guard that crossed in front of the wardrobe, however – it was the leather tunic and long braid of a woman, of Regina bloody Mills, who kept glancing over one shoulder, looking almost as harried as he felt.
Without fully thinking, Robin pushed the farthest panel open with his foot and hissed in here. She flinched at the sound, dagger flashing into her hand, but she only faltered for a second before she threw herself inside, stumbling over his outstretched leg as she pulled the door closed behind her.
"Why – " she began, and he quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, shushing her so they could both listen. No sign of the guards, but the quiet was eerie, and Robin knew it was too much to hope for that they could have gotten away this easily.
Regina's eyes were seething and suspicious over his hand, and he let go of her slowly, raising both hands to show that he was unarmed.
"Apologies, m'lady," he whispered, lips almost grazing the ridge of her ear. "I couldn't risk your voice attracting the guards."
"You think I'm that careless?" she whispered back, and he was forced to shrug.
"I don't know what to think of you. You present a different face each time we meet."
She narrowed her eyes at him, sneering, but he could tell that she was stung by what he had said.
He had never thought of her as young before – or short, though he noticed with some surprise that she barely reached his shoulder – but then, even when they had found themselves in close proximity, they had never been this close. Her sneer made the scar on her lip more prominent, called his eyes to it, and he wondered how it would feel under the pad of his thumb, under his lips, should he – and gods, man, this is not the time to start cataloging details about your rival, Robin reminded himself sharply.
"Why does this keep happening?" She waved her hand between them, a gesture that would be more effective if they weren't already standing chest to chest.
"It would appear Boris finally realized he could sell the Queen's secrets to both of us and make twice the amount of gold for half the amount of work."
"You pay him?"
"You don't?"
She smiled slowly, dangerously, revealing a keen line of teeth. "I bat my eyelashes nicely, and if he doesn't cooperate…"
She shifted against him, retrieving something from her waistband, and her hand brushed against his thigh in a way that had him biting his lip again, trying not to make a sound. She held her dagger up where he could see it and let him finish the thought on his own. He should have known, of course, that she would use every weapon available to her before she resorted to simple bribery.
His position was becoming unsustainable again, painfully so, and his knees were beginning to quake with the effort of staying half-crouched and holding himself away from Regina.
"Do you mind if I – ?" He reached his arm over her shoulder to brace himself on the wall behind her, groaning slightly as he tried to find a stance that didn't hurt. The motion unsettled her as well, and she instinctively pushed herself against him to keep them both steady.
They both paused, listened intently for approaching footsteps, and, as he concentrated on the sounds of their own breathing, he realized how intimate their pose was: his body ducked protectively around hers, her cheek resting against his collarbone, sharing warmth and breath and pulse, and neither of them backing away from it.
"How long are we going to hide in here?" she asked, and he felt the low rumble of her voice fill his chest.
"Never played Sardines, m'lady?" he answered with a quirk of his lips, and he thought he felt her nose wrinkle with similar – if reluctant – amusement.
"I hardly think a picket of soldiers can fit in this wardrobe. One, maybe."
"Then we wait until they give us up as lost."
She sighed, and his lungs echoed the movement.
"All this trouble for a few baubles, and neither of us has anything to show for it," he mused, only for Regina to tense against him, a guilty stirring that told him he had misread the situation entirely. "You got in? That's why this place is crawling with guards?"
She didn't look at him, eyes and voice dead, completely devoid of emotion, as she touched something at her neck. "She had something of my mother's. She knew I'd come."
"Ah."
"Look, I should go. There's no reason for both of us to get caught, and she won't…she's not looking for you."
She pulled away from him suddenly, scrabbling at the door until she found the latch, and she was halfway out before he snagged her arm, trying to draw her back inside. 'Wait, I didn't – !"
She shook him loose, her chin raised to him and her mouth set. "Don't look so worried. I don't intend on letting them take me."
And that didn't calm him, not the slightest, but she was already bounding down the hall, and he could do no more than watch her, risking his own discovery to see her safely out of sight. He closed himself into the wardrobe again, inhaling what scent she had left behind (floral, horsey) and praying he would not hear the uproar that signaled her capture.
Ten minutes passed before he could wait no longer, and he set out himself, tracking her route as best he could, taking cover at every creak of the floor and rustle of wind, and finally peering through an open window, wondering if she had, somehow, chosen flight as her means of escape.
She would not be found, then. Not by him – certainly not by the guards – and he liked that, this woman who insisted on doing the finding, who flitted in and out of his life, decidedly untamed. They were thieves, after all, meant to meet in the dark corners of the night and claim whatever treasure they might find.
He would leave a seat by his fire open, for her, in case she came to claim what belonged to her.
…
v. a sigh, somewhere (made all the difference)
"Are you happy, my darling?"
He schooled his face into a smile. Truthfully, he had been lost in thought; not unhappy but distracted by things that would abash his bride if she knew, and so he took Zelena into his arms, murmuring, "I am more fortunate than I deserve, in all things."
Zelena reached up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and drew him down for a kiss.
"Just think, the next time we do this, you'll be mine," she said, all girlish breathiness and wide eyes, and Robin hummed in response, dotting another kiss to her temple before releasing her to her handmaidens to ready herself for the ceremony.
Robin was already attired and therefore restless, fiddling with the silver clasps of his waistcoat and turning the rings they would soon exchange over and over in his hand, letting them clink together like coins.
She was the chance at stability, at getting out of the business and becoming a respectable man, that he needed, and, more than that, he loved her. Yes, he loved Zelena, and this day had been long in the making, their mutual affection extending back, oh, years now.
Funny, though, that he couldn't ever quite remember how they had met, couldn't quite place the moment his heart had chosen her, that leap into love so often celebrated in tale and song. It had been inevitable from the start, clearly, but those were things a man should know. (Weren't they?)
He had been a younger man then, and a more foolish one – quick to fight, quick to risk himself and others, quick to love – but she had been the difference. His awakening. His sun to revolve around, bright and burning and earnest.
And so he would change his entire life for Zelena, and thank her for it, and if his mind sometimes wandered – gods help him, he still felt her blade against the pulse in his throat, her cheek fitted against his collarbone – he would dedicate himself so well to Zelena's pleasure that she would never know, never have cause to doubt the sincerity of his vows over a few chance meetings in the wood.
He had sworn himself to her.
(He never had bought Regina that drink.)
…
The gathering at the church was small, his own men having been relegated to posts outside where they could keep watch without, as Zelena put it, 'offending the other guests with their forest manners.'
She looked radiant in white, beautiful and coy as she took his hand before the altar, and they listened to the priest speak of devotion and honor, the cornerstones of married life. Robin found himself impatient for the ceremony to end – it was sober and lawful where he wanted joy, a celebration – and in his distraction he imagined he saw a shadow at the door, an uncertain figure peering in and quickly withdrawing before he could make out the details.
Too slight to be John, he mused, but perhaps his men were growing fidgety too.
Zelena murmured his name, a current of displeasure underscoring each syllable, and he realized that the priest was prompting him to make his vows. He smiled apologetically at Zelena, squeezing her hand in a silent plea for tolerance, and let the priest repeat the affirmation that would make her his wife.
"I, Robin," he began, willing his tongue not to trip over the words that seemed meant to entangle him, before – steel on steel, scuffling feet, John's distinctive bellow of Get 'im, lads!, and, underneath it all, the gasping, gossipy voices of onlookers that signaled that something truly terrible had happened – the churchyard erupted into chaos, and the church pews creaked as one as everyone craned backwards, trying to find the source of the outcry outside.
"Robin?"
Vows unmade, vows broken.
He dropped Zelena's hand, and he knew, with sick, impossible certainty that scorched the back of his throat, he knew who he would find on the other side of the doors.
He could almost convince himself it wasn't her, at first.
She was small (oh, heart-soaringly attuned to the circumference of his arms) but not like this, and he had never know her to be quiet, or still, and surely she was far from here, stealing after some other lord and laughing at the ease with which she lightened his pockets, she was not –
She would not have followed him here, and she would never smile thus at his approach, and she would not dare to leave herself vulnerable like this (she would not dare to die before he had called her by name, she wouldn't dare).
He vaguely registered Will and a few others subduing a bloodied man some distance away, and Zelena beside him, angry blooms of color upon her cheeks, before John herded her away with the rest of the gathering crowd.
"They finally caught me," Regina said as he lowered himself (fell) to her side, and he shook his head at her, because he didn't want to understand, and, even if he did, he would deny the truth of the scene in front of him.
There wasn't much blood despite the way she had been slashed shoulder-to-hip, but he knew that faraway look in her eye, the inexplicable calm with which she held herself together, hands pressed demurely over the wound that no mortal body could withstand.
"The Queen's men." She twisted in the direction of the bloodied man, and now Robin could make out the familiar sigil of the Black Guards under the sheepherder's cloak that had disguised him. He wanted to ask her why she had come, to tell her that maybe the guards had been there for him instead, but Regina was already murmuring, "But she, she won't get my heart, and that's…"
There was a glow of triumph in her despite the tremulousness of her voice, and Robin waited for her to finish. He had heard dark stories of the Queen and her collection of hearts, but he did not presume to know what had passed between her and Regina, and he would not steal these final words from her, not when she had so few left to spend.
But it became clear that Regina couldn't go on, and he let his hand run into her hair, lifting strands away from her cheek as he suggested, "Important?"
She nodded into his palm, a tear slipping free as she closed her eyes.
He ached for her, and for the things she had carried too-long on her own, and, gods help him, he was going to be selfish and talk of other things, for her time for sorrows was done.
"M'lady, you can't be intending to leave just now. There are matters between us that have yet to be settled."
"You still owe me that drink." Her smile was lovely, and this one especially, as it was meant for him alone. "I won't…forget."
"Keep your eyes open. It'll be – "
Church bells rang behind them, a joyous sound made cruel by reality, and Robin swallowed the rest of his lie.
"She's waiting for you, Robin."
"No," he insisted, laying his hand over both of hers as if his strength (useless now) could turn back the sluggish trail of blood that kept taking her a little farther away from him. "No, Regina, I'm right where I need to be."
She looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, wondering, and he had lost his heart to her so long ago, so deftly had she claimed it that he had never felt its absence, and now it was all he could do to confess and hope that she understood, that she had understood all along what lay between them.
"You always were the better thief," he told her, not a hint of ruefulness in the curve of his mouth.
"You aren't so bad yourself," she breathed, and he laughed for the both of them, because this was the only moment they would share – the only lifetime, condensed into the number of seconds they could continue to look at each other like this – and he refused to make it any bitterer than necessary.
A bird winged overhead, passing in front of the sun and throwing Regina's face into shadow.
He kept waiting for the light to return to her eyes, counting out the seconds allotted to them, but there was no longer any point in asking her to stay.
(He didn't have the heart to leave.)
Title and subtitles adapted from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken."
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