Dialogue drabble prompt from my dear darling mysterious-song: “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?” Thank you Zoe! Mwah!
Regina has half a mind to lodge an arrow straight through his heart, the instant she sees his face for the first time.
Just her luck, that the man she’d once sworn to end, were they ever to meet, would be the one to rescue her from a similar fate. It doesn’t help matters that his stupid face is even more handsome than the wanted posters had suggested to her, every time she tore down the ones bearing her own image beside them.
Robin Hood smirks her way, and then gives her a full, uninterrupted view of his back as he takes his time with the reins, looping them into a tight knot around a wooden post. Close range, unsuspecting victim. She’s not likely to miss.
“You,” she snarls when he turns to her again. It does nothing to shake that self-satisfied smile of his, and she really should have taken that shot when she had the chance.
“At last we meet, milady,” he returns, eyes all a-twinkle. Jackass. He’d known all along who she was, hadn’t he? No wonder he looks so smug. Perhaps he’d been counting on it, saving her, to trap her into owing him a debt. How is she supposed to kill the man now?
To her supreme dissatisfaction, the harder she scowls, the wider his grin seems to grow. “I had the situation under control,” she insists, and it seems no matter how many times she’s told him so (three now, by her count—she can’t help that he’s likely as deaf as he’s stubborn), it may take several more to convince him of it.
“I rather disagree,” replies Robin Hood, patronizingly, as though addressing a small child. God, she can’t stand him. “And might I point out that nobody forced you to jump out of that carriage?”
Damn it. He has a point, doesn’t he? “Thank you for the reminder,” she snarls, again to no effect. “I think I pulled something when you carted me off so unceremoniously like that.”
“Well, if you’d been more graceful about it,” he shrugs, unsympathetic. She has every intention of stalking off in some dramatic fashion—she’s not entirely sure why they’re even at a standstill here, on this worn, stone path in front of some dingy old tavern—but as soon as she turns, that offending muscle in her back gives an angry little twinge, and she winces.
He looks contrite then, but her warning glare (she doesn’t need his help or his pity, after all) smooths his expression, and he’s all infuriating smiles once more when he inquires, oh so innocently, “Do you require a massage, milady? I’d happily oblige.”
“What I need is a drink,” she glowers, and his grin goes lopsided as he gestures her toward the tavern door.