AN:For the OQ Valentine's exchange. Title from Rainier Maria Rilke, and subheadings adapted from the poem 'i like my body when it is with your' by ee cummings.
i. Storybrooke – and possibly i like the thrill
Regina caught the arrow halfway down its shaft, feeling the burn of its momentum across her palm like a brand before it stilled, and the thrill of side-stepping what might have been her end traveled down her arm to breast to heart, all quickening to remind her what it was to feel like this.
Something within her coiled as the man came circling, she closing with him in perfect time as though – unknown to her, yet idling in the space just beyond her fingertips, like a dream once-remembered – they had met in this dance a time or two before.
He offered his hand, an invitation, and she relinquished only the arrow (not an inch of herself) to his grasping, and a look that spoke catch me if you can with all the challenge in her.
ii. Before the dark curse – muscles better and nerves more
She kept a set of commoner's clothes – procured by a well-bribed stablehand – hidden inside her mattress just for nights like this: a cold, halved moon, and a wind stirring restless from the west, and the arrival of a travelling market that raised its stalls along the outskirts of the village but once a year, forbidden to her by the word of her mother.
But the night and its moon-touched wonders called to Regina, and so she dressed as quickly as caution would allow in the dark and slipped down the tree outside her window like a common thief, bridling Rocinante and kicking onto his back and away before she could think better on it.
The market became truly alive in the deep of night, lit by bobbing paper lanterns and leading her to its center through labyrinthine passages of silks and spells and perfumes and people she could never put a name to. Taking care to stay hidden in the folds of her cloak, Regina pressed on, following the trail of her restlessness as if it might find her freedom, as if she might buy it, here where half the world seemed spread out before her in all its possibility.
She slowed to skim her hand over the back of something leather-bound, a jar of dragon scales, a display of immaculately arranged fruits that the merchant promised would sweeten her life with a single taste, and everything was a temptation though she shook her head demurely at each turn, knowing the snares that lay open to those who were penniless but desperate to make a deal.
It was the last stall that made her pause, understated as it was, with its decorations of flowers blown from glass, each more delicate and desirable than its neighbor. She reached a finger to examine the edge of a rose petal, astonishingly red, only to recoil when a voice lashed at her with, "You have coin enough to pay for that, do you, girl?"
Regina lowered her eyes and let herself be shooed away, the sights and sounds of the market kaleidoscoping around her as she wove vaguely in the direction of home, all at once tired to the bone and longing for the familiar comforts of Rocinante and her bed.
The hand at her back caught her off-guard, gently but firmly settling above her elbow and guiding her backwards to meet the solid warmth of a body. She had barely cried out when the man – young, like her, and steady – spoke to calm her, saying, "I didn't mean to frighten you. But I couldn't stand by and let one so lovely leave the market empty-handed."
Something cool was pressed into her palm, and abruptly the support behind her was gone – she shivered in want at its sudden absence – lost to the crowd that moved around her with an occasional tut at the way she was halting traffic in every direction by standing still.
She was left holding one of the glass flowers she had been so taken by, a finely detailed sprig of apple blossoms that she had failed to notice at the stall itself but, now, immediately revealed itself as her favorite of the collection.
She should be alarmed, she supposed, that someone had been watching her – had read her desires so cleanly despite her efforts at concealment – but it was curiosity that claimed her and drove her onward in blind pursuit of the man who had known her so easily.
Regina chose a direction by instinct, twisting and pushing through people and half-tripping over her own feet as she fought to the edges of the market, unsure what it even was she was searching for. She found herself, at last, freed of the crush of the masses and standing before the edges of the southern forest, grounds far beyond what her mother would consider appropriate for a woman of her breeding.
She hesitated, swaying on some invisible precipice between worlds, as the wind picked up her skirts and flung them forward, to the trees.
She had broken the rules as soon as she had stepped into these clothes, had struck straight for everything forbidden to her, and this – what was one more act of defiance when it felt like freedom, when she might discover what manner of man stole flowers for commoner's daughters and a life unweighted by royal robes and expectations she had no hope of fulfilling?
She was close enough to touch the trees now, half under their protection with no memory of moving her feet, wondering if she could, if this was what had called her into the night…
But, quicker than a heartbeat, the moon emerged from behind the clouds to peer down on her with its stark clarity again, and the forest seemed frightening instead of freeing, startling her from its hold with the too-near cry of a fox that sounded nothing but a warning.
She fled, ashamed equally of her cowardice and of the recklessness, the aching want, that kept turning her head back towards the trees as she ran.
The ride home was long, silent except for Rocinante's rhythmic huffs and the tick of her heart, rabbit-quick, resounding in her ears.
She spun the apple blossoms between forefinger and thumb, admiring the way they burned blood-rich when the moonlight caught them just so, and knew she ought to crush the gift under her heel – she had dared enough for one night, and if mother found it, and guessed…
But she could not bear to destroy something so rare, so lovingly crafted, and so she tucked the flower under the rough linen of her shirt for safekeeping, letting it ride flush against her heart though its touch raised goosebumps all the way to her throat.
Strange to have something so perfectly hers, unknown to all others, and she delighted in having something more than her paltry secrets (her heart) to guard – now too the memory of a stranger, warm of breath and body, who had taken her hand and granted her such small kindnesses as she had thought, once, only existed in storybooks.
And here, thick in the shadows of a night where nothing seemed impossible, Regina let herself imagine they might meet again under a similar moon, her carrying flowers and he a song of lovers and nothing more to be asked.
(For she might brave the wilds of the southern forest, and a mother's wrath, if it meant that she might know him, too.)
iii. The Missing Year – so quite a new thing
This winter had been particularly unforgiving, made all the worse by the way both snow and the uncertain-but-impending threat of the Witch kept them confined to the castle far longer than was healthy – even those on good terms with each other were beginning to chafe at the too-close quarters, and, far more worryingly, the food stores were dwindling at a rate that would see them starved well before spring.
Regina had retreated further into herself, into the meager refuge of her rooms, with every new sign of disaster, attending the council meetings and functions required of her and not a whit more. It was unbearable to be surrounded by the same fools day in and day out, by the half-spoken fears that dogged them all and the looks, that strain of expectation in the air that she might do something more to save them, as if she could tame the weather and conjure feasts of food and make the Witch reveal herself with a simple twitch of her nose.
She had never asked for this, the responsibility of caring for a kingdom she wasn't even sure was hers, and yet she knew she held the same expectation for herself – that she might do more (do all, despite the price) to see them through this mess.
The thief caught her one afternoon, solidly planting himself in a doorway before she could escape through it and murmuring so she alone could hear, "Milady, I'm concerned –"
"Concerned?" she echoed, tauntingly. "Why, how utterly helpful to know you're concerned about things. And here the rest of us were delighted by the report Granny just gave us about the state of the larders."
Robin frowned in confusion. "No, I didn't mean that. I'm concerned about you, milady."
That was enough to snap through the last of her restraint. "Then you're simply wasting your time."
She felt a warm tendril of satisfaction in her belly at, finally, being able to strike at him and seeing the answering hurt in his eyes – and it might have troubled her, once, this return to anger (how dangerous, how good it felt), but that time, and that woman she might have been, had long been put to rest.
"However little of it we may have left," she finished, letting the words twist viciously in the space between them, and when she stepped around the thief, pushed hard past his shoulder, he made no move to stop her.
At last – three months or more since Yule, she thought, though her reckoning of time had faltered – the snow receded and the skies seemed clear enough of danger to risk venturing outside of castle grounds. Parties of volunteers, the thief and his men forefront among them, dispersed in all directions with orders to bring back news, and fresh game, and any portents they might find of better days to come.
Regina paced a thin line from window to window as four days stretched to five and wondered if she should have gone with them to offer what protection she could from the elements (or worse) – wondered, too, if she had sent them all to early deaths, to the heart of some terrible peril, as the rest were left waiting for hope that would never arrive.
But slowly the parties began to return, and, with them, incoming streams of fish and small game, grain traded from a farmer three days' journey away, even a small comb of honey unearthed from an abandoned hive – and, best of all, talk of sunshine and tiny buds on the trees and a land ready to lay winter to rest.
Robin's group was the last to return, and the most welcomed for the way they paraded in with racks of venison and boar over their shoulders, clutches of raspberries that had somehow thrived under the frost, and John's booming voice announcing, "Breathe in spring, my friends!"
It was agreed they had gathered enough food to support a minor feast that night without compromising the larders further, all knowing they needed the cheer of a celebration even if it was too early to fully mark the rites of spring.
When the hour came, Regina stood stiffly in a corner, content to watch over the delight of the others as they ate and laughed and to allow the tension her shoulders had been carrying for months ease just a fraction.
Robin, his boy at his side, was making a slow pilgrimage around the room, stopping and chatting and charming each person they came upon, evidenced by the smiles left in their wake and the snippets of happy conversation Regina could hear above the crowd. Robin, with his own manner of magic, seemed to have gifts for everyone, even if it was just to tell Snow of all the birds they had spotted, or present Belle with a new folio of papers to read and catalogue, found forgotten in someone's barn.
For a moment distracted by Granny haranguing her about getting a piece of her famed raspberry pie before it disappeared from the banquet table, Regina realized too late that father and son had purposefully wended their way to...her.
She couldn't quite bring herself to flee, not with Roland beaming at her so in anticipation, and his father trailing a step behind, more reserved in his joy but smiling nonetheless.
"Milady," they greeted together, the picture of courtly respectability for all they (he) continued to abuse her proper title, and Regina had to stifle a chuckle when Roland nearly toppled over from the lowness of his bow.
"You seem to be enjoying yourself, gentlemen," she acknowledged in turn, softening what might have been her natural response for Roland – for him she could play along, and (then again) perhaps for the thief too, to make amends for the animosity their last meeting.
Though why she cared for how he might look on her now, she did not dare to ponder.
"Oh, yes," Roland said with complete seriousness, eyes wide with a child's awe, "'s wunnerful."
He steered the conversation then, waxing about the decorations, the fine clothes everyone had dug out of storage for the occasion, the honeyed cake Granny had apparently made just for him, but slowly the conversation lulled, all parties growing shy, and Regina looked to Robin in question. They had been the ones to approach her, after all.
He cleared his throat softly. "It's customary to crown a Queen of May with the first flowers of the season, as you know."
She raised an eyebrow at that, knowing any calendar they consulted would show them falling quite short of May.
"A mite early, perhaps," Robin conceded with a bob of his head, "but Roland here determined that we already had a queen on hand, and so…"
He nudged Roland forward, what must have been their agreed-upon signal for him to present the crown – a fragrant circlet of lilies of the valley, their delicate heads bound together with such skill (such care) as she had rarely seen before – for her approval. "If you would do us the honor."
She hardly knew where to look, caught as she was between puzzlement and the foolish wrench her heart gave at being offered such a gift.
It was tradition, only tradition, and a boy's sense of propriety (a queen is a queen is a queen) that had led to this gesture, and yet – half-chancing a look at Robin and seeing the softness in his eyes, as if he gave with the entirety of his soul – it seemed like something more.
"The honor is mine," she said after such a silence that Roland's smile had begun to wobble, and meant it.
She bent, resting on one knee so that Roland might reach her head, but it was the thief himself who crowned her, a thing she knew purely from touch, from the way his fingers eased through her hair before settling the flowers, mindful of where it might tangle or pull against her scalp and soothing it all just so.
It was a liberty she caught her breath at, how he treated her as his familiar – as dearly as a lover, some might say – and suddenly she was grateful her face was turned from his, so that he might not read too far into the comfort, the pleasure, his attentions brought her.
"What say you, Roland? Is our queen properly adorned now?"
Roland squinted thoughtfully as she straightened, accepting the hand Robin had extended to help her balance. "Pretty!"
"Pretty," the father affirmed, looking on her as something of a wonder himself, and any sharp word Regina would have had for his cheek on another night died in her throat. He had not yet released her hand – nor she his, though this was a detail filed away in the darkest reaches of her heart, meant to be considered only in the hours when sleep eluded her – and, even now, he persisted, gently pressing her hand with the whole of his own as if to reassure her all will be well, now.
All will be well.
(And, oh, to believe such a thing was to stare into the sun too long – blinding and senseless and, above all, irresistible, and so she believed.)
It was Roland who broke the moment, to the relief of them both, for they were close to embarrassing themselves in full view of the court. Roland insisted on being the one to show her the veritable horde of pies Granny had managed to produce, on both of them tasting the early raspberries, and she let him lead her on, yielding to his excited chatter and the general merriment around them and allowing the burden of responsibility to fall from her shoulders, if only for one night.
And through it all, like the tart-sweet of raspberry filling under her tongue, Regina felt a newly familiar presence at her back, a second shadow – and one she welcomed, bewildered though she was at the tenderness of her own feelings and knowing the light of the coming day would harden her towards him again.
Before the light, however, she could confess: she coveted something of him, too.
iv. Camelot – which I will again and again and again kiss
Robin was fine, assuredly whole under her touch (her hands wandered to that spot, again and again, of their own accord, a new ritual to their lovemaking that she hated herself for) though she had seen him waver at the brittle boundary between life and death.
She had caught his blood in her own two hands.
Robin was fine, and yet Regina could not fight the compulsion to protect him in what small ways she could, finding every excuse to keep him by her side through the daily cycle of meetings and meals and quiet hours spent in their quarters.
And, above all, refusing to speak of what she had almost lost, of the helpless worry that consumed her every time one of Arthur's men passed too close, or something moved silver-quick in the periphery of her vision. She'd nearly incinerated a sparrow as it winged through the dining hall – twice.
Robin, ever-patient, never let on that he knew exactly what she was doing, though she read his understanding in the way he had softened his kisses, how he was quicker to take her hand and run his thumb between the ridges of her knuckles in his own soothing rhythm.
Quicker to tap out a code against the pulse of her wrist, too, when they were caught in a place they couldn't speak openly, and she knew his touches there intimately now – the agile patterns of You okay? and Steady, love and Fear he may talk us to death. Exit strategy?
He did it now as Arthur droned on about some long-ago tournament to the delight of Charming and Snow, and she had to bend her head to concentrate, the pattern repeating a second time, and a third, before she could parse the message clearly: Penny for your thoughts?
Regina grimaced, wondering how he expected her to answer when they were already reduced to makeshift morse code, and tapped back a curt Later. She saw him bite his lip against laughter at that, knew that she had likely fumbled the word (she had never taken to this method of communication as easily as him) and let herself sink further into her mood.
They all felt constrained by the castle walls, by their status as guests – she knew this – but lately the sense of captivity had been casting its hooks more deeply into her, like some slow-growing strain of claustrophobia.
Luckily, Arthur's monologue was soon disrupted by preparations for dinner, and they were able to make their excuses, Robin unhurriedly but deliberately leading her away from the others and, to her great relief, outside.
The sky was just beginning to bruise into dusk, and they walked, hand in hand, in silence around the courtyard. Even here they were under the watchful – if unfailingly polite – eyes of the the royal guard and half the court, and this pricked at Regina though she had no great secrets to keep.
"So," Robin prompted as he slowed his step further, his hip brushing against hers. "I believe a fair exchange is in order: my coin for your words, and may I say, as ever, I am getting the better end of the deal."
"I… I just needed some fresh air."
She expected Robin to sigh at her non-answer – he had every right to – but he merely hummed in agreement, thoughtfully glancing to the sky, and loosed his hold on her hand to slip his arm around her waist, drawing her nearer.
They had dwelt too long in contemplation of late, she feared, and yet action – honesty – seemed utterly beyond her. She wasn't even sure what she should be confessing when Robin already knew the whole of it, though she supposed he would argue it was best to lay everything out in the open and face it head-on, together.
"I should change for dinner," Regina said by way of extricating herself from the silence, easy though it was, easy though it always was between them.
Robin ran an eye down the line of her neck, let his fingers tighten against the velvet in the dip of her back as he groaned, torturously deep-throated, in want. "You look lovely."
"I should change," she insisted, and it was true enough that the customs of court were, still, embedded deep in her muscles even if they doubled as a useful distraction at times.
"I offer my services to you, milady, should you need, ah, assistance with the intricacy of these," he said, all playful calculation, as he traced the hook-and-eyes running down the back of her dress. "Your most humble servant."
"And if I accept, we'll both miss dinner," she teased, though, gods, she was tempted to let him have his way, and take him in turn, just to chase the boyish pout from his lips. It wasn't fair, that he could charm her so – that he could whet her so.
"Go, I won't be long," she said, and he nodded, taking care to kiss her temple before he released her.
She returned to their quarters, breathing deeply as she thumbed through her wardrobe, eventually settling on blue silk a few shades darker than Robin's eyes. She was unpinning her hair when a soft knock at the door interrupted her, and Robin stepped through a moment later, passing a small bundle of peonies and iris from hand to hand and looking altogether too pleased with himself.
"Which royal garden did you steal those from, and how much trouble will you be in when they find out?" she asked, laughingly, of her thief.
"What nature gives us freely can be stolen by no man, milady," he returned, biting his lip to smother a laugh of his own.
Oh, they were definitely, definitely stolen, then – and Regina was all the more glad for it.
"I thought they might bring a little life into this room," he said, serious again, as she conjured a vase to hold them in, "keep some of the clouds at bay."
There was something in the tone of his voice, a certain soft cadence, that told Regina he had needed them – this reminder of a world outside, and freedom – as much as she, and she cursed herself for not seeing it before.
(They missed dinner after all, too busy exploring the untold inches of each other's bodies, the boundaries of their pleasure, and for the first time in weeks she wasn't afraid he would fall to blood and ash under her hands.)
She too found the corner of the gardens just out of sight of the guards and took what had been given to them freely, delighting Robin when she sidled back to their room to present him with a bouquet of his own.
"What thief comes so boldly before me?" he asked, circling around her.
She halted him with a kiss, and a single fervent word: "Yours."
v. Operation Mongoose – your body and its bones, and the trembling
Robin's thighs ached from holding his crouch as the minutes slid by, begging to reposition his weight, but all he needed was one half-competent guard to look down at the wrong moment, glimpse movement, and loose an arrow into his back before he ever got near the locked chest that held his prize.
And so he waited. Waited until his legs deadened and painfully awoke into pins-and-needles and quietened again, until he was sure the last footsteps of the watch had faded enough for him to chance a rush and escape.
His muscles were primed, and he counted off the seconds as he unfolded and skitter-ran to the chest (two), knelt (five), and reached for the lock, only for his count to be pulled up short at six as his hand found the sharp spine of a flower – a thistle – nestled in the keyhole where his hook pick should fit.
Puzzled, Robin wrested it free, glad for the protection of his gloves, and tried the lid of the chest itself and found that it lifted easily, having been left unlocked. And completely empty.
He swore under his breath, wondering who else had discovered this oversight in the Queen's security and learned to exploit it (and how). A soft rattle in the distance, just enough to prick at his ears, reminded him of the guard and he hastily made to move, at the last second plucking up the thistle stem and poking it through the buttonhole of his collar as if he might wring answers from it later.
John and Will sat sentinel at the near edge of the forest, watching for his return, and it was Will who frowned at his approach, no doubt noticing that he carried nothing with him.
"What, Robin, no luck?"
"The guards do seem to be out in force tonight," John reminded the younger man with a hint of reproach, to which Will scowled.
"Worse than no luck, I'm afraid." Robin pulled the thistle free, wincing as it caught against his skin, and held it up for their inspection. "If this is any indication, I believe we've run straight up against a new rival."
"A thistle? What do you suppose it means?"
Robin sighed, and pressed his thumb to one of the spines until it drew a line of blood. "Warning."
In troubled silence they began their trek back to camp, and it was only after they had passed the first outpost (raising their hands to Alan in greeting as he stood lookout) that Robin realized he was still carrying the thistle. Even then he found himself tucking it into a pocket instead of discarding it underfoot, though he could not quite say why.
Their rival proved himself formidable indeed, endlessly clever and elusive, and Robin found himself stymied at every turn, sneaking into manors and carriages and the castle for promised treasure and being rewarded only with a growing collection of thistles.
(And he did collect them, every one, until his pockets had filled several times over.)
It was impossible for a thief to be so prepared, to leave so little trace, and yet after months of frustration Robin knew nothing further of his rival than his calling cards, which indicated nothing more than a casual interest in horticulture and a damnable sense of humor about the whole thing.
Once, risking exposure himself, he thought he caught the barest glimpse of someone fleeing the castle ahead of him: a curtain of dark hair, and a wind-blown cloak silhouetting a woman's curves, and that was enough to embolden him again.
Later he discovered the poster in the woods, memorizing the architecture of a woman's face and the sounds of her name – Regina – and thinking that she might well be the one. And then he knew it, when fate dealt them a hand together, at last, and they ran into each other (quite literally) on the next job.
Robin had offered a hand to help her up, urging "Quickly now, they mustn't catch you," and she had refused him without a word, fleeing, and so like a slender touch-me-not ready to spit and strike if one dared to reach for her.
In time, in slow breaching of each other's walls, they came to work together – or, well, to needle each other in a slightly friendlier manner. He liked when she joined him on hunts, the intensity and ease with which she wielded knife and bow, and she tolerated him to watch her back on jobs that demanded two sets of hands.
She had stopped leaving thistles for him to unearth, perhaps imagining she had pricked him enough to keep him at bay in all the ways that truly mattered, and if she noticed the one he persisted in wearing through his buttonhole, just under the pulse in his throat, she never acknowledged it.
They were staking out the east road in anticipation of a shipment of sea silk into town, though their watchfulness had devolved mostly to idling in the summer heat as hours passed with no sign of the rumored caravan.
Regina watched lines of sweat run down Robin's neck, drawn to the way they disappeared under the line of his shirt, then snapped her attention back to the road, embarrassed by her interest. It was not the first time she had let her eyes wander to the thistle he kept at his top button, but today she was bored, and so its presence irked her more than usual.
"Why do you wear that?" she asked, and Robin flinched at the sudden break in silence, likely doubly surprised because she so rarely was the one to seek conversation with him.
He followed her sightline to his collar and she sniffed, looking away with feigned disinterest. "It can't be pleasant."
He frowned a bit, as if he had never actually considered the question before. "Well...out of habit, I suppose. I've grown accustomed to having it with me."
Foolish, she thought, letting a charged silence descend between them again and feeling the weight of his eyes on her, lingering in a way that made her grit her teeth.
Naturally the caravan appeared while they were both distracted, brooding, and their ambush – spectacularly mistimed – fell apart almost as soon as they mounted it. The caravan's escorts lost not a moment in wheeling around to give chase, and all of Regina's senses narrowed to mere survival in the panic of escaping.
Robin had pushed her ahead of him and she had taken flight, putting enough distance between herself and their pursuers to kick up into the safety of a tree unseen. Robin, struggling to follow her trail through the undergrowth, passed beneath her full seconds later, his head darting left and right as he tried to locate her.
And, in a not-so-far-gone lifetime, Regina might have thrown him, thrown anyone, to the wolves if it meant sparing herself, but before she could think she was hissing down to him and extending her hand, helping him grapple his way up next to her before the guards caught sight of them both.
They were pressed close, each trying to muffle their breathing against the shoulder of the other, all hands fisted into each other's clothes to maintain a precarious balance as the escorts crashed into the clearing a little ways below them.
By sheer luck, or fate, they were not discovered, though they were stuck motionless for a good hour before they trusted that the caravan had given up its search and continued on. Robin murmured something about saving his life, and she barked at him to stop speaking nonsense, pushing out of his arms and stumbling from the tree before he could stop her.
She was relieved when he didn't try (and he could only ever try) to follow her home.
But he came to her a few days later, finding her along the traplines they had set together – worked together – and (so like him) wearing a new bloom through his buttonhole and swinging a mess of foxglove and primrose and tulips at his side that he lay down like an apology (a promise) between them.
"There's a language to flowers, you know," she told him, fingering the soft curve of a tulip and letting her eyes slowly rise to his.
"Oh?" Robin said, and she could see he was playing the fool, pretending innocence. "And what do these tell you?"
It was not until he led her to a thicket of bluebells, whispering its secrets to her as he laid her down, kneeling over her in prayer as they worshipped the ground with their bodies, that Regina finally gave him her answer.
i-ii. Storybrooke – of under me you so quite new
It was not what she had ever imagined her life could be: quiet, and warm, as she finished annotating the latest draft of the town budget and half-listened to Robin helping Roland read through all the valentines he had received at school. Henry snagged a chocolate from the pile on his way back to his room, promising he was studying for the biology test and not just reading comic books, and all of it was so easy, the rhythm so natural, that Regina could only marvel at all the goodness that had found her.
Robin returned to the kitchen table after seeing the boys to bed, joining her in companionable silence – I like keeping you company – as he broke into a box of candy hearts and began absently sorting them into neat little rows by color, occasionally holding the more incomprehensible messages out to her to translate.
(She too had kept rows of hearts, once, so carefully compiled, and shivered to think on it, for what little good it did to regret her evils now when there were no more amends to be made.)
Robin held another heart to her in question, and she read, her voice rising in bemusement of her own as she wondered what was so difficult to grasp about this one. "Kiss me?"
"Don't mind if I do."
Robin had already crossed to her, eyes alight at how easily, how willingly, she had fallen for his ruse, and she opened herself to him, asking for all he might give.
She might have boasted of walking away unscathed (pride and head and heart intact) when they had first met, here, but the truth was his arrow had never missed its intended mark.
And, well, words really were rather overrated.