They hunted together sometimes.
Neither could agree on exactly how it had started (she would say that he had set his traps too close to hers, that that particular stretch of forest was her claim alone, and, at their first meeting, she had spat the word thief at him with a vehemence that surprised them both), but it continued week after week, a quiet ritual they had fallen into and made no effort to break.
She would find him somewhere along the northern ridge, hardly more than a shadow in the cold morning light, as he made his rounds among the traps they now shared. He never stirred at her approach, never looked up from his hands re-setting a wire or cutting free whatever rabbit or weasel had been unlucky that day, and perhaps that was why she kept coming back.
It was business between them. It was this wire wants mending and give me a hand, here and no questions that tried to pin her down, no wondering who she was or what she was running from.
They spoke of little outside the practicalities of the hunt, learning each other through gestures instead: pointing out tracks, signaling as they stepped up to take their shots at the animals that tried to flee them, dividing up game by weight and need by nudging it towards each other.
She had called him thief far longer than necessary, noticing how it made him suck in his cheeks every time as if he was holding in a laugh.
And then, one day, watching him from the corner of her eye as they stalked after a ringneck she had clipped across the wing but not killed, she asked, "What should I call you, then?"
He smiled, revealing dimples, and she turned her head just a fraction more to view them properly.
"Robin."
"Robin," she repeated, feeling out the word. Of course. She walked faster, rolling her eyes and muttering just loudly enough for him to hear, "You are a forest boy, aren't you?"
"Locksley, if you'd prefer."
The pheasant tottered along in front of them, dragging its damaged wing, and she knelt to it, grasping it firmly under the breast and running a hand down its neck.
"No, it suits you somehow," she said, shaking her head as she put the bird out of its misery with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Robin."
He waited three more weeks before he asked for her name in return, and she had to say it twice, louder each time until she was almost snarling it, before he understood, before he nodded thoughtfully (as if he knew something about her now) and said, "Ah. Regina."
It seemed an odd to her, and she wondered at the purpose of his asking until they collected their third rabbit of the day, one she had sighted and shot on almost pure instinct, a sort of frisson thrilling through her chest and down her arms as she lowered her bow.
Robin crouched over the animal, frowning, as he removed the shaft and examined the body.
"Have you checked your draw recently, Regina? Your arrows are pulling left."
(She knew they were pulling left – did he think her an idiot? – and she had every intention of tuning her bow on her own time, when she had time; of all things, he was choosing to pick apart a clean kill, a good kill, even if it had taken the rabbit through the neck instead of the heart, and she would not stand for that, not for anything.)
"They are not," she gritted stubbornly to his back, daring him to argue with her.
"Tighten your bowstring, and wax it."
He dug into one of the pouches at his waist and tossed a lump of beeswax to her, carelessly, already turning back to the rabbit.
She fished the wax out of the dirt and clenched it in one fist, wishing it were something breakable.
"Come over here and make me," she growled under her breath, and she was off, pushing through the undergrowth in a random direction and letting the low-hanging branches bounce and snap against her back. One caught her across the cheek, and the sting of it struck somewhere deeper, and, oh, it burned.
She had half a mind to leave him there, to leave him her traps and her part of the woods and start over on her own, but she was losing momentum, unsure where she was going, and when her path was interrupted by a runnel of water, less than a streamlet, she stopped beside it.
She sat on her heels and set her bow across her lap. The lump of beeswax had softened some in the heat of her fist, and she watched it change shape as she pressed it, turning it from cannonball to slivered moon and back again.
She plucked at her bowstring, listened to its subtle thrumming against her leg, and wondered if it was worth the bother to mend, if she should simply replace it. Needing to do something with her hands, she rubbed the wax up and down the length of the string and worked it in with her fingers. The motion soothed her, and, when she heard a rustle behind her, she did not react.
It was Robin, of course. She recognized his step, and thought that he was making his presence known only as a matter of courtesy to her, should she choose to flee from him again. Maybe she should, but (she was tired of running) he was upon her before she could decide, strong arms wrapping around her own and gently loosening her grip on the beeswax.
"I don't need your help," she said, lifting her chin, and some part of him tickled the back of her head.
"I know."
"Then why – "
He stayed quiet for a minute. When she had given up hope of getting an answer, she felt a sigh break from him, like he was struggling to explain himself. Like he didn't know quite what to do with her.
"You asked." There was a note of humor under the frustration. "You said – "
"Shut up," she mumbled, not needing to be reminded of what she had said.
She was surprised to find that he did. For a moment.
He adjusted his hands around hers and flicked at the bowstring.
"You're a better shot than that. I've gotten quite used to unfouled game, you know. No torn muscle, no remnants of the shaft..."
She half-scowled where he couldn't see it – "Spoiled" – but had to suck in her lower lip to control the smile that wanted to betray her.
She let him work at her bow, admiring the efficient play of his hands over the linen and wood (and the softness of his breath against her neck, the way he hummed tunelessly to himself), and, when it came time for them to part, she pushed all three rabbits back at him, telling him he had earned his keep.
(And, besides, she had a taste for something sweeter tonight.)
