Chapter Text
He's all squinted eyes and cackling, covered in blood and feathers, and he is perfect. Robin could have fallen for anyone, any number of valiant nights and handsome noblemen, but no. It was this strange Plegian boy, and now she's watching him use a pair of sewing scissors – borrowed from Frederick, no doubt – to dissect a squirming Risen.
“Does Frederick know what you're using his scissors for?” she asks.
Henry pauses for a moment, the scissor-blades hovering a hair's-breadth from his subject's remaining eye. “Well...” he laughs, “what he doesn't know won't hurt him, right?”
She's about to argue that in many cases that isn't even remotely true, but instead she chuckles quietly. “You'd better wash them very thoroughly before you return them, or there'll be hell to pay, I'm sure.” Somewhere in the back of Robin's mind she knows she shouldn't be okay with this herself, but that feeling pales in comparison to the feeling that she would really like to kiss this boy, right now, as covered in blood and guts as he is.