Work Text:
In hindsight, it was totally the farmer’s fault. But it was the bird’s fault as well.
It was the bird that was making the stupid cawing noise at who knows how late in the night. It was the bird that jolted the farmer out of sleep—she was having a very good dream about something she could not remember for the life of her—and it was the bird that cawed again, causing her to fall off her creaky bed.
The cawing persisted throughout the night. It sounded too pitchy for your average forest bird, yet too gruff for the ravens that came by the farm occasionally. The farmer tossed and turned throughout the night, her sleep plagued with visions of scarecrows and faceless figures disguised in shadowy cloak.
She had enough after waking up for what felt like the hundredth time, a quiet groan leaving her lips as she checked the clock. The flickering LED timepiece—a luxury shipped in by Lewis as a gift for the farmer’s last birthday—read 3:30 AM.
With a sore back and bruises under her eyes, she put on her overalls and began tending to the farm.
°•. ✿ .•°
“Oh my Yoba!”
The farmer startles, her face snapping over her shoulder to find the source of the outcry.
After three hours of tending to the farm, her stomach began to grumble, the vibrations disturbing her concentration. When she headed back to the cabin, the farmer discovered she was out of orange juice, which prompted her to rush to Pierre’s.
She was halfway to the beverages aisle when she heard the exclamation, prompting her to turn around.
Maru was looking at her with pursed lips and a furrowed brow, an expression she usually reserved for finicky gadgets.
“Something the matter, Maru?” The farmer offered her a weak smile.
“Did you get any sleep last night, farmer?” Maru said, tilting her head in inspection. “You look… well, not to offend you, like a zombie.”
“I watched The Running Dead the other day and I can confirm, you’re a spitting image of one!” Pierre supplied helpfully from behind the counter, to which she had to smother a glare.
“I’m fine. I just heard this stupid bird that wouldn’t stop yammering all night…” The farmer crossed her arms and glowered at the floor, as if the bird was plastered to wooden planks.
At the mention of the mysterious entity, Maru perked up and started questioning the farmer about the bird, her zombie-esque appearance apparently forgotten. Looped into for what was looking to be a twenty minute interrogation, the farmer sighed and began to divulge all of the details she had of said creature. With a resigned pull of her brow, she took out a spare notebook where she scribbled down half-baked notes.
Let’s just say this wasn’t the first time Maru or her father have asked her about wildlife near the farm–and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
About a good thirty and a half questions later, Maru let out a distressed squeak.
“Yoba, I forgot about the clinic!” She checked her watch, her eyes wide beneath her glasses. “I promised Harvey I would be back 15 minutes ago, sorry farmer!”
The farmer waved the brunette goodbye as she rushed out of the convenience store, but before the door closed Maru turned around to shout, “Make sure not to strain yourself too much farmer, get some rest!”
She muttered something else that sounds like, “...need to… mom…” but the farmer doesn’t quite catch that.
The farmer brushes it off with the shake of a head and goes to pick up her OJ.
°•. ✿ .•°
The next few hours go by similarly. Honestly, the farmer ought to be a little offended. She walked around town and people she thought were her friends commented on how ghastly (Abigail), gross (Haley), or macabre (Elliott) she looked.
Each of them accompanied a statement with a question along the lines of: “Get any woodwork recently?” or “Did you happen to visit the mountains today?”. A little disgruntled by the repetitiveness of their responses, the farmer muttered a quick “No,” and rushed off to complete her next errand.
A sweat built on her brow by the time she left the Blacksmith with a freshly crafted ax, and the farmer frowned as she wiped it off her forehead. Typically running errands didn’t take this much out of her, but oh well—the smithy could get pretty hot.
“You headin’ home after this farmer?”
She, once again, turns around to see Clint looking at her, his lips pressed in a thin line.
Caught off guard by his concerned expression, she shakes her head. “Nah, I was gonna check out the mines before I head back. Why?”
The blacksmith seems to debate something in his head before muttering, “Maybe you should go to the Carpenter’s Shop first.”
The farmer doesn’t get to respond to that before the wooden door slams shut, leaving her gaping at the closed door.
Strange.
°•. ✿ .•°
Despite all of the strange warnings she had gotten from the townsfolk, the farmer marched for the mines. She had a schedule after all, and if she didn’t get that calcite today, she was going to forget to mine the amethyst next, and then it would be the topaz—
The farmer only feels a twinge of regret as she steps into the cool cavern (was it just her, or did her breaths seem to echo off the walls extra loud today?), her boots smacking against the stone.
She only gets to lift up her pickaxe before a sudden shot of wooziness hits her brain, and it suddenly occurs to her that maybe that calcite wasn’t all that necessary.
But by then it was too late, because her body was hitting rock bottom.
°•. ✿ .•°
Her head is pounding.
With a crackled groan, the farmer shifts on the mattress beneath her, her lips pulling back into a grimace.
She takes in a breath, trying to reorient herself. For some reason, it works extremely well. Her shoulders relax, her jaw loosens, and she isn’t really sure why until her brain processes the scent she’s picking up.
Freshly chopped wood.
“Crap!” The curse leaves her mouth unbidden as her eyes shoot open.
She takes in the oak nightstand, the embellished carvings on the headboard, the–
Yeah, she was in Robin’s house. Scratch that, Robin’s bed.
“Oh my Yoba,” the farmer says, horror rolling off each word of the exclamation. She looks down to see a fresh shirt and shorts on her body, which only fuels her panic.
Before she can spiral further, a wave of nausea hits her body. “Arrgghhh…” A dangerous mix between a groan and a howl escapes her lips as she doubles over on the bed.
She distantly hears a creaking sound before, “Farmer? Oh, shoot!”
Next: the sound of footsteps rushing toward her, a pair of hands clutching her body, picking her up. If she were in a better state of mind, she would question how Robin could carry her—she wasn’t light by any means, farmwork required muscle—with ease, but she was too busy trying to keep the bile down to notice.
The next time the farmer opens her eyes (when had she closed them?) she is crouched in front of a bucket. Her knees hit the cool wooden floor with a thud, and she wastes no time to deposit her breakfast into the bin.
After a few more minutes of dry heaving, the farmer exhales, her eyes falling shut as she slumps against the wall behind her.
But then the wall moves—which, even in her nausea induced state, she questions—and even more surprisingly, the wall speaks.
“Did you get it all out?”
The farmer’s body manages to form a weak nod at the inquiry, and a low chuckle resounds somewhere above her.
“Good, now how about we brush your teeth?”
Before she could process the suggestion, the farmer was being lifted up from the ground.
She whines as her body is forced to stand on two legs. “Nooooo…”
“C’mon farmer, up you go.” Robin is carrying the majority of her weight, the farmer’s arm slung over the carpenter’s shoulders. “I’ll get you back to bed after this.”
With another quiet groan the two of them make it to the sink. The farmer distantly feels a toothbrush entering her mouth and the vague taste of mint on her tongue, but the feeling goes as quick as it comes and suddenly Robin is nudging her to spit out.
She flushes her mouth out with water which is apparently too much effort all at once, and as soon as she finishes she collapses back in Robin’s arms.
“Good job, we’re almost done here, alright?” Robin says softly.
The farmer melts into her arms and shuts her eyes, passing out on the firm chest beneath her.
°•. ✿ .•°
When she wakes up again, the soreness from her head was distinctly missing. Her limbs feel sore and achy, but besides that, the farmer was feeling tremendously better.
Sunlight peaks in through the window, the yellow glow illuminating the wool comforter wrapped around her body. She lifts her head up, wincing at the strain in her neck.
Just as the first time she woke up, Robin was nowhere to be found. The farmer stretches her arms within the cocoon before giving up on the muscles in her neck, her head dropping back on the soft cushion of the pillow.
She falls back into a peaceful nap for an indeterminable amount of time before a creeeeak wakes her up.
The rest of her body still trapped by the blanket cocoon, the farmer lifts her head once again to see Robin at the doorway.
Her copper blonde hair was down for a change, bunched around her shoulders. Her lips were curled in a small smile, and the farmer’s heart thumps a little faster. Something about the gesture was so intimate.
“Did you pick my sorry butt from the mines?” The farmer has to say something, instead of staring like an idiot. Though, it would’ve been better if her voice didn’t sound like it was one croak from death. “Thank you. I ‘preciate it. Seriously.”
Robin huffs out a laugh and walks further into the room. She had a mug of something hot in her hands, steam billowing softly above the ceramic container. She places the cup on the nightstand beside the farmer and gestures for her to drink up.
She takes the cup and holds it up to her face, grateful for the cover.
“Yeah, I found you unconscious in the mines. I almost mistook you for a piece of exotic wood!” Robin reaches forward to ruffle the farmer’s hair. “Be a little careful next time, okay?”
She smiles into the mug and nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “Thanks again, Robin.”
Her eyes wrinkle in the corners–something that never fails to make the farmer’s heart go up her throat–and her smile widens. “‘Course farmer, what would we do without you?”
At that, the farmer takes a quick gulp of the tea, before promptly spitting it out into the mug. “Hot, hot!”
She sticks her burnt tongue out with what Haley calls her ‘kicked puppy expression’. Sure, the steam from the tea should’ve been a warning, but Robin’s comment caught her off guard and she needed a distraction.
“You’re cute, you know that?” Robin says with an amused smile, and the farmer’s cheeks deepen in color.
“You’re nice,” the farmer counters dumbly, not that it was untrue. She was nice—so nice. So nice that the farmer is considering clearly out half of her farm for peach trees just so Robin could have as many as she pleased. Yeah, that would be good. She’ll make a trip to Pierre’s tomorrow.
Robin’s head tilts, and the sunlight hits her face in a way that makes her brown eyes glow. “Yeah, well, nice enough that the whole town was badgering me about how you looked like a zombie?”
The farmer hacks out something that’s in between a cough and a laugh. “What?”
“You got my own kid rushing home, wondering if you’re okay,” Robin says, her lips curling up on either end of her face. Her expression was so fond that it almost suffocated the farmer with the force of it. “Guess that means I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you from now on.”
“Is that so?” the farmer asks, if not to just have something to say. “I would… like that.”
Robin lets out a soft breath, and the warmth of it hits the farmer’s rosy cheeks. “Yeah. Me too,” she says quietly. Then, she leans in.
The farmer may be dense, but she knew what was about to happen. This was the moment that happened at the climax of every romance novel, movie, tv show, comic, etc. She had read a couple of those books to prepare for this moment.
Instead of feeling excited, an odd sense of unease pools in her gut. Her eyes widen in genuine panic, and—
Abruptly, the farmer coughs and wipes at her lips. “I’m sick! It’s going to rub off on you!”
Robin’s confused expression gives way to something else that the farmer can’t quite decipher. Not yet, at least.
“Oh.” The carpenter’s hand reaches up to cover up a giggle. “I was just gonna grab that mug from you. The tea’s still hot, so I figured you didn’t want to drink anymore right now.”
The farmer’s face suddenly matches the shades of her beets. “Oh.”
Robin laughs for another few moments before her eyes lock onto the farmer’s. “In all seriousness, though—I want you to know we only move as fast as you want. If you don’t want it today, tomorrow, in ten years, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t need physical affection to know what we have… it’s something that makes me whole inside, right here.”
She brings the farmer’s hand right above her beating heart, and the farmer feels her own stumble, crash, and fall into a ditch somewhere below her ribcage.
She swallows, an indescribable warmth filling her body. It was strange. She hadn’t felt this way since she last sat at her grandpa’s hearth, the warm flames licking her face as his voice softly read out a bedtime story.
It was the feeling of home.
°•. ✿ .•°
Robin insists that she stays the night and they stay up talking about that one time the farmer tripped and fell face in one of her farm’s ponds, and the day that Robin accidentally chopped one of the wooden pillars in her house because she was sleepy and thought it was a tree.
They laugh, and the farmer looks into Robin’s twinkling eyes as she gestures out about the time that she accidentally locked Sebastian in the basement and knows: this is love.
That night, she dreams of freshly chopped wood and too hot mugs.