Oh, The Places You'll Go

Five Ways Wat Has Sinned and One Way He Means To, Just As Soon As Chaucer Lets Him

Notes: I was sick and dizzy so I wrote fic. What of it? mrs_laugh_track read it through and gave the yay. I heart her.

Start big, Wat thinks. If you're gonna confess your sins you want to start with a fanfare. That way everything else is small fry and like to get overlooked. So, murder then.

Wat killed a man when he was nine. And really, if you look at it the right way it was accidental death. It wasn't like he'd hit the bastard with a shovel on purpose. Not the first time, at any rate. His sister, whose honour he'd been protecting, had looked at him half-horrified and half-amazed. Then she'd told him to run. He'd stared back, shocked, and done as he was told. It was only half a league and a side-splitting stitch later that he'd remembered to drop the shovel.

He can't even remember his sister's face, now, but some nights he still wakes sharp, bolting upright because of the man he sees in his dreams, hair matted with blood. Wat curses – because that's what he does – but he's glad to be reminded that he faced his enemy and beat him down. He might pick his little knife over a shovel as his weapon of choice these days, but it's good to know that if need be, Wat can take care of himself and his own.

So fine, this was less one of them one-off sins as more a lifestyle choice, but there's gluttony and then there's Gluttony. There was this one time, a few years ago, when Wat had been offered a jug of caudle and, instead of sipping at the egg-thickened wine, had swallowed it all in one gulp. It had been worth it for the brief moment before his stomach took against it, lurching, and up it came into the nearest vessel. Which somehow managed to be Sir Ector's helmet rather than the jug Wat'd just emptied. And this at the same time as the trumpeters called the knight to the lists.

Wat had offered Roland his best 'oops' face, tipped out the worst of it then jammed the helmet on Sir Ector's head. Not his most shining hour, to be fair. He hadn't sat down for a week after, nor tasted caudle since.

The thing about Pride is sometimes you can't help it. When Wat sees William up on his horse, wearing the armour Kate made, lance in his hand, sitting there like he really was born to it- Well, Wat can't stop his heart swelling in his chest. Look what they've done, the three – four – five – of them. Look at it! They were starving and now they have food and beds and food and more than one change of clothes and food and Wat doesn't even have blisters any more. They're brilliant; William's brilliant. So if it's Pride making his hair stand on end, so be it. It's well deserved.

Wat does remember the tub-thumping priest of his childhood, though. Pride goes before a fall and all that. And they've a long way to fall. Wat worries.

No, really? Who hadn't? Fine, so maybe not nuns, but some of them were, er, looking for their Heavenly Bridegroom on earth from what Wat had heard, so- Yeah. It was a sin, blah, blah. Let's just say that diving out of a window headfirst, pantsless into a snowdrift the wrong side of Michaelmas was punishment enough, ta very much. He'd like to see the Church think up better.

Wat knows he's governed by his temper and his fists. His old mum used to blame the hair. Red-headed, ruled by the Devil, she'd said more than once when Wat had been dragged by the scruff of his neck off his latest tormentor. Wat had tried hacking it all off once but it'd made no difference, only made him look like an escaped lunatic with tufts sticking up here and there and his skull all nicked with cuts. That pissed him off, too. And it prickled growing back. Bloody hair.

He'd decided in the end not to worry about it – after all, if he didn't keep his emotions close to the surface, how would he remember where he put them?

Wat's been privy to Chaucer's arse a lot more than anyone not kin should have. It's nothing special, the writer's a scrawny get, and there's not much there to get a hold of but oh, Wat wants to. He's gone from wanting to pummel Chaucer with his fists to wanting to pummel him with his prick and he can't decide which is the most likely to speed him to Hell.

He doesn't understand it, how just a look or a drawled "Maybe not you," can have him desperate to have Chaucer bent over the nearest surface, pants around his ankles whilst Wat makes merry with his backside (and, if he's in a good mood, gives Chaucer the old reach-around), but then, there's lots of things he doesn't understand. Go with the flow, he always says. Do as you would be done by. And there's another thought for a rainy day.

He's yet to spring this master plan on Chaucer, but with every day they hiss and spar at each other the closer it seems to come. Wat's been a good boy lately, hardly sinned at all (well, discounting the lying). He's been saving up for this big one. It'd better be good.

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