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“Reports are saying that it’s going to shut down the whole city,” Robin called to Cormoran from her desk. “There’s talk of a travel ban and power outages, if it gets any worse.”
“Guess I’m lucky I live upstairs, then,” Cormoran called back. “If you like, you can skiv off early,” he said, coming into the doorway to see Robin, brow furrowed, tapping away at her computer. “If you’re worried about making it back to your flat.”
“No use,” she said, looking up. A crack of thunder made them both jump, and Strike hoped Robin wouldn’t notice how wide his eyes had gotten, how pale he felt. The lightning flashed brilliantly white in the room, which had fallen into grey gloom in the absence of sunlight.
“No use? Why?” Cormoran tried to sound normal.
“They’ve closed down the tube line I take, apparently there’s a blocked storm drain overflowing into the tunnel,” she said, scanning the screen. “Bollocks. Suppose I could take a cab.”
Thunder crashed again. Strike felt as though the sound reverberated through his chest, echoing down his spine. He kept his eyes closed, teeth gritted, counting the seconds until the lightning flashed once more.
“It’s practically overhead,” Robin said, and Strike felt obscurely grateful that she sounded shaken up as well, then hated himself for feeling that way.
“You’re welcome to stay here,” Strike offered, and knew he’d said the right thing when Robin looked at him with grateful eyes.
“Would that be alright, really? I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.” She bit her lip, and Cormoran pulled his eyes away from that. The couch- she meant-
“I wouldn’t offer unless it was alright, would I? But, ah.” He looked at the new couch again, thinking of trying to sleep on it while it made obscene noises. It would be an uncomfortable night for her. A spatter of hard drops hit the window, the sharp noise cutting through the ambient sounds. He jerked to look.
“But you’re welcome to stay upstairs, I mean. With me.”
Still staring at the window, heart pounding just a touch too fast, he didn’t realize exactly what he’d said until Robin replied, her voice slightly higher than usual.
“Ah, upstairs? You wouldn’t happen to have a guest room lurking in that spacious apartment, would you?”
“What?” He yanked his gaze to Robin, who was now looking at him with apprehension. At least, he thought it was apprehension. It couldn’t be anything else. He parsed through what he’d said, and hoped his face wasn’t turning pink.
“No, I just mean. This couch would be terrible to sleep on, and I’ve got a recliner upstairs that I’ve slept on plenty of times, so if you’d like, I can sleep there and you can have my- you can have the bed.”
And the vision of Robin sleeping in his bed, her golden hair spilled across his pillow, the pale slope of her shoulder rising out of his sheets, all of this he ruthlessly shoved down and locked away.
“I- I wouldn’t want to impose,” Robin said, tucking her hair nervously behind her ear. There was a far-off roll of thunder, then, and both of their heads turned to look in the direction of the sound; that meant there might be another storm, hard on the heels of the one currently pouring through the gutters, and that it was certainly going to get worse before it cleared up.
“Really,” Cormoran said. “”s alright. Stay with me tonight. Tomorrow you can go back to your flat and, I’unno, bake me a pie or something.”
Robin’s startled laugher made his heart lift in his chest.
“I can’t bake pie,” she said, smiling now. “But if you’ve got real food upstairs and not just leftover takeout, I might be able to make something for us to eat. I don’t think we’ll be wanting delivery tonight.”
“Mmm, you’re probably right,” Cormoran said, looking out into the sheeting rain. “This is worse than usual, even for this time of year.”
Robin shrugged at him, and now they were back on an even keel, their usual careful give-and-take. “Global warming, I suppose,” she said. “Well, let me finish typing up my notes on Mustachio’s mistress and we can lock up here. I don’t think anyone’s about to come banging in the door looking for a detective, at this point.”
“No, probably not,” he said agreeably. "I’ll get my notes together and head upstairs. Just knock when you come up.”
She nodded, smiling absently, as she went back to typing at what seemed a furious rate. Cormoran went back into his office, braced against the next roll of thunder. It hadn’t been so bad in the past, but then the storms hadn’t been so bad in the past either. He hoped she wouldn’t see how jumpy he was, how he flinched; then, realizing who he was thinking about, amended his thought to hoping she wouldn’t judge him, for she’d surely notice.
He grabbed whatever he thought he might want, shoving it into a haphazard pile. Then, glancing around his office, he gathered up the three mismatched mugs and two spoons to take out to the kitchenette, and dumped the last of the empty takeout boxes into his trash. He’d deal with it later.
Robin was still typing as he let himself out and went upstairs, and he was careful to walk at his normal pace instead of rushing, even as he went around his tiny apartment, picking up all the takeout containers around the place- he needed to stop ordering so much biryani, ugh- and bagging all the rubbish up, which was then tied off and set on the tiny ledge that the landlord had called a “balcony.”
The rain, coming down in what seemed to be a solid wall of water, was pouring at a furious rate down the gutters, and Cormoran looked at them nervously. A landlord who never fixed the elevator did not seem the type to worry about paltry, unnecessary details like gutters and drainage.
Ducking back inside, shaking water from his hair and hoping the bag didn’t split out there under the eaves, Cormoran assessed his space. New sheets on the bed. Right. He set about switching the current set for his single other set, shoving the old set under his clothing in the hamper. He debated, for a long moment, whether to sweep, but rather thought Robin might get suspicious if she heard him sweeping.
Then, realizing she must have heard him moving all over the tiny space, already, he went looking for the broom, nearly tripping when thunder rolled once more.
He was just dumping the dustpan into the new garbage bag when he heard Robin’s gentle tap on his door, the sound almost lost in the roar of the rain.
“Just a mo’!” he called. The broom and dustpan stowed, he glanced around his apartment, hoping he hadn’t left anything too embarrassing out. Well, no hope for it now.
Robin, standing outside his door, gave him a nervous smile. “Everything all right? You look out of breath.”
“Yeah,” Cormoran said, trying to even out his breathing. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Come in, then.” He stepped back, trying not to be nervous. He knew, in his head, that she had already seen his apartment, loads of times really, coming up to get him of a morning or dropping things off before she left for the night, running up to fetch him something. But this was different, somehow. This time she was going to be here.
He saw how tightly she was clutching the strap of her bag, and realized he was not the only nervous one. She was glancing around, at the bed just inside the door, the tiny table by the setup he referred to as a kitchen, the telly, the easy chair Nick had insisted he take after Ilsa refused to have it in the house any longer. It had been a bear to get up the stairs, but Nick had convinced a lad he worked with to come help get it up for a bottle of something nice and it had been worth it. But that was basically it.
“Thanks again for letting me stay,” Robin said, looking up the short distance to Cormoran’s face. “I know it’s- you don’t have to, and I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah,” Cormoran said, realizing how close together they were standing but unable to move, partly because he didn’t want to and partly because he was trapped by the bed. “Yeah,” he said again. “It’s really, it’s no problem. I’d rather you stay here than take your chances out there.”
Another roll of thunder, and Cormoran hadn’t been braced for it this time; he jerked backward a step, nearly lost his balance, and caught the doorknob to keep himself upright. His prosthetic was beginning to ache abominably, and there was no way Robin couldn’t see what the thunder was doing to him.
The lightning illuminated her face, her mouth open in a soft little ‘o’. She blinked at him, about to say something, then snapped her mouth shut. He just looked at her, hoping she couldn’t see everything he was feeling.
“Shall I put on some tea, then?” she said finally. “I could go for a nice cuppa right about now.”
“Yeah,” Cormoran said, relieved. “It’s right over- well, you can see it.” He managed a laugh, and if it sounded self-deprecating, well. “Mugs and sugar on the shelf, I think there’s some cream left in the fridge. If not I can nip downstairs and get some from the office.”
She laughed, setting her bag down on the tiny table and slipping out of her heels. “It’s fine. Why don’t you find us something to watch on the telly, there must be something worth watching.”
Cormoran felt a great swell of affection for this woman, who gave him space and didn’t push him, who gave him an out from conversation. She looked so sweet, there in his tiny apartment, filling his electric kettle and taking down mugs. Like she belonged there, in his apartment, in his life.
He shoved the oversized easy chair, positioning it so that the telly could be seen from both the chair and the bed. The only other seating option was the one chair at the table, and that was hardly a place to spend more than half an hour.
He could hear Robin clinking with the mugs, and the soft pat of her stockinged feet. He fumbled with the remote, flicking on what turned out to be a sports channel that was showing cricket.
“Here you go,” she said, setting his mug down on the tiny shelf built into the wall. “I’ll just sit on the bed, then, shall I?”
“Mmm,” Cormoran agreed, not looking over as she fumbled her way onto the bed, stretching out her long legs before settling in tailor-style, her mug cradled carefully in her lap.
“Are we really going to watch cricket?” Robin asked. “I mean, I know sport is great and all, but it’s not, ah.”
“No,” he said, turning. “No, let me just.” He settled himself into the easy chair, an involuntary sigh of relief escaping him as he took his weight off his prosthetic. “Right then. Something else.”
“Mm, something funny.” Cormoran hid his smile in a sip of tea at the way she pronounced funny, the u drawn out into a warm round oo, and flicked the channels.
“Wait, go back,” she said suddenly, as he passed through two more channels. “Is that A Fish Called Wanda?”
It was, and it was just beginning, and they sat in companionable silence, laughing occasionally, as the movie unspooled into the late afternoon, the hazy grey light gently fading into warm darkness. Cormoran found himself flinching less and less, and couldn’t tell if it was because the thunder had drifted away or because he was relaxed enough to not notice it so much.
The movie ended, and he lay comfortably on the chair, the footrest kicked up so he was halfway to horizontal already. The next movie started, and it was Bridget Jones; Robin laughed and rolled off the bed, stretching as she rose.
“My mum loves this movie, I’ve seen it a thousand times,” she declared. “I’m going to see if there’s anything edible in here. Right, Corm, how do I turn on some light in here?”
“Ah, the light by the kitchen’s got a switch over- yeah, no- right there,” he said, craning his neck to look over the back of the chair. He stayed put, letting the sound of the movie and the rain and Robin puttering in his kitchen lull him into a light doze.
He could hear her muttering to herself, and hoped there wasn’t anything egregious lurking in the back of his tiny fridge. The rain was letting up a touch, and he cracked open an eye to see that his phone said it was late enough to justify his stomach’s rumbling.
“I don’t know what you’ve done back there, but it smells good,” he called to Robin, who had been at it for at least half an hour.
“It’s almost ready,” she called back.
He let his eyes slide back shut, and managed to actually drift off into something like sleep before a nudge at his shoulder woke him.
“Eat before it gets cold,” Robin advised him, handing him a plate on his one bamboo tray. “It’s best when it’s hot.”
He looked down to see some kind of egg-pepper-onion-meat-bread concoction on his plate, steaming gently up at him, with a fork at its side. Robin padded back into the kitchen, and he heard the fridge door open.
“Want something to drink?” she called.
“Beer, please,” he said, cutting into the meal with the side of his fork. He’d just popped the first forkful into his mouth when she came back, an opened bottle in her hand.
“Like it?” She was grinning at the look on his face; he hadn’t expected there to be cheese, and the flavors blended deliciously. He chewed and swallowed, looking up at Robin.
“How did you manage this?” he asked once he’d swallowed. “I didn’t think I had that much food up here!” He winced at his own admission, but Robin just kept smiling.
“You nearly didn’t. The onion wasn’t half slimy and the pepper was rather shriveled, but once I chopped them up it was fine. Bread was fine. The cheese- well, the cheese was questionable, but I sliced off the greener bits and it seemed alright. It’s good?”
“Robin,” Cormoran said fervently, “this is amazing and you are a wonder.”
She dipped him a little curtsy, impressive considering she was wearing slacks, and went back to sit down at his little table. He suddenly wished he had two chairs, so that he might be able to sit across from her, chat over dinner, look her in the eye. But no, this was better. This was less like they were a couple, less like they lived together.
Pull yourself together, Strike, he told himself firmly even as he took another bite of the delicious dinner she’d made, and nearly melted. She’s taking refuge from a storm, not moving in.
As if to underscore his words, the rain began to pick up again, and there was a distant rumble of thunder. On the screen, Bridget Jones was rushing about, utterly failing to prepare an edible meal.
They ate in silence, the rain pounding at the ceiling just above their heads, and after a long while Robin came to take his empty plate and the tea mug. He could hear her stacking up all the dishes, then she came back to sit on the bed. Darcy was presenting Bridget with a new diary. Robin sighed, flopping down to lay flat on the bed.
Cormoran pulled himself from his haze, turning to look at Robin. She had an arm flung over her face, but he could see tension in her frame.
“Everything alright, then?”
“Yeah,” she said, muffled. “‘m fine.”
“Ah,” Cormoran began, not sure how to phrase it. “If you like, you can borrow some things to sleep in. You probably don’t want to sleep in your nice things.”
“Thanks,” Robin said. She sat up, rubbing the heel of her hand across her face. “I ought to wash off my makeup and all, too. I’ll just-”
“Yeah,” Cormoran said, understanding what she was saying. “You go ahead, I’ll change while you’re out.”
“Where-”
“Top drawer.”
He heard her rustle through his drawer. “I think there’s some sweat pants in the bottom drawer, if you like,” he offered.
The sound of the drawer was just loud enough to hear through the fall of rain.
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll be back up in a bit. Ah. Thanks again.”
Cormoran waited until he heard the door close behind her before he attempted to rise from the chair. His leg, which had been sore earlier, was now one solid ache, and he yanked his pant leg up to unstrap the damn thing before realizing he’d need it for a few more minutes.
Levering himself up and putting weight back on it was a bitch, and he was grateful Robin wasn’t here to see him hobbling around. He sat down on the bed to put on one of the t-shirts he wore to bed, along with a pair of flannel pants that had been a gift from his sister. Once more clad, this time more comfortably, he slowly unstrapped his prosthetic, massaging the tense muscles as another roll of thunder, low and long, split the night. He could feel his neck and shoulders bunching up, the tension stringing him like a bow.
Giving up on his leg for the moment, he set the prosthetic in its nook by the bed, swapping it for the crutch that also lived there. He was nearly back to the comfort of the chair when Robin rapped at the door again.
“Yeah, it’s open,” he said, turning to see her re-enter. Her office clothes were neatly folded in a pile, and her face was clean of her usual makeup. Her eyes looked smaller without their ring of darkened lashes, and she looked somehow younger and older at once. His shirt draped easily over her figure, and he turned back to the chair before he let himself get too deep into that thought.
“Do you know what time it is?” Robin asked, setting her clothes and bag down at the table.
“Yeah,” Cormoran replied, having gotten safely back into his chair. “Nearly 10.”
“Let’s see what they’re saying on the news,” Robin said, coming back to the bed. “I’m wondering how long it’ll take to fix the tube.”
He flicked back to the news, where a man was talking about the storm “possibly going bombogenesis,” which sounded ominous.
“Never mind, then,” Robin said, as one of the other presenters moved on to a story about Prince George. “This has nothing to do with us.” She sighed and laid back on the bed. Cormoran turned to look at her, and found himself entranced by the waistband of his sweatpants, which she’d rolled up to fit her. There was a section of pale skin showing, and he dragged his eyes from it.
Another rumble of thunder, and the rain intensified. The lightning flashed bright enough to fill the room for an incandescent moment, and Cormoran found himself frozen, clutching the arms of the chair reflexively.
Robin had bolted upright, and was now staring at the ceiling.
“My flat’s half underground,” she said in a dreamy, far-off voice. “You’re right up next to the sky, up here.”
“Yeah,” he managed. “I am.”
He wasn’t sure if this was a second storm or if the first had simply strengthened, but all the easy dozing he’d managed earlier was gone now, with thunder and lightning and rain splitting the sky. A gust of wind rattled the window, and he could see Robin jump from the corner of his eye.
“I’m glad I didn’t go out in that,” she said, shakily.
“Yeah,” Cormoran said. “Me too.” He kicked the footrest up and pushed back against the chair until it slipped into a suitably horizontal position, then realized the blanket he’d planned to use was over on the bed, where he’d left it when he changed.
“Dammit,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he said reflexively.
“Corm,” Robin’s voice was firmer, “what is it?”
“My blanket, I left it on the bed.”
“Is that all?”
Another crack of thunder. He grasped the chair arms. It wasn’t usually this bad, why was it this bad?
Robin settled the blanket over him, and his eyes snapped open and he grabbed for her, holding her wrist in an iron grip. Half a beat later, he released her, feeling sick to his stomach.
She stood there, staring at him. He couldn’t meet her eyes. He shouldn’t have let her in, this had been a mistake.
“Cormoran?” she said, voice soft, gentle. The rain above them beat a frantic tattoo, but she spoke slowly. “Are you alright?”
“I’m- it’s just-” he grasped for words. He hated this. He hated looking any less than competent, especially in front of Robin. He hated letting her see him look weak. “It’s not usually this bad,” he said, apology raw in his voice, as he managed to look her in the face.
She was rubbing her wrist. “It’s alright,” she said. “It’s the thunder, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said, relieved. She wasn’t going to pry him with questions. She understood.
“Would you be more comfortable on the bed?” she asked. “I can sleep in the chair, or downstairs, if the bed would make it easier for you.”
“No, no, you take it. It wouldn’t be any better in the bed,” Cormoran lied. It would be, but really only if she were in it with him, and that simply wasn’t an option.
In the past, with Charlotte, he’d been able to grit his teeth and hold together. Charlotte hated weakness. He’d simply lain there, looking at her, watching her breath and matching his breaths to hers, letting her rhythm hold him steady. He’d be exhausted the next morning, but he got through it okay. It was easier to remember he was in the present and not the past with her there, because in the past she hadn’t been there, so his subconscious knew it wasn’t the past, because she was there. It was tortuous and frankly shouldn’t have worked, but it worked enough to get by.
“Are you sure?”
Cormoran looked up at Robin, who was there, and tried not to think of Charlotte, who was not. “Yeah, Robin, it’s fine.”
She gave him a jerky kind of nod and went back to sit on the bed, facing him.
“You let me know if you need anything, all right? I’m disturbing you, tonight, least I can do is help you if you need it.”
“Sure, okay,” Cormoran said, knowing he would do no such thing.
“Right.”
Thunder. Flinch. Flash. Relax. It was becoming a pattern, now.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep, now,” Robin said, going over to the bed and getting beneath the covers. “Not with all this noise.”
The news was still droning in the background. Cormoran took an educated guess at what Robin’s life with Matthew had been like, back when such a thing had existed, and said, “Mind if I put on the game? Sometimes it helps me sleep.”
“Sure,” she said, covering a yawn with her hand. “Matthew used to do that too. Rugby, usually.”
And behold, they were showing last week’s rugby match. Cormoran laid on the chair, curling his hands into the blanket, and focused on the sounds Robin was making, the shifts and sighs, so as to not dwell too deeply in his memories.
He left the game on just loud enough to be heard, letting the announcer’s voice blend with the rushing rain, focusing on the slowly evening sound of Robin’s breath. She had, without any fanfare, managed to slip into a deep sleep which Cormoran felt intensely jealous of. He took a sip from his bottle of beer only to find it had grown warm; now that Robin was asleep, perhaps he could try self-medicating as he usually did, with a few bottles of Doom Bar and a cigarette.
Well, he thought as he maneuvered himself up with his crutch, carefully, perhaps not the cig. That might wake her up, and she wouldn’t appreciate the lingering aroma that would cling to her clothing, after. But there were three cold bottles in his fridge, and he considered how to make them happen.
Finally, he simply took them back to the shelf one by one, the short distance magnified by the effort it took to travel it, moving quietly with the crutch. He froze when thunder rumbled, and eventually was able to situate himself. He cracked open the first bottle, downing most of it in a few long pulls, letting the chill of it clear his throat.
He sat, drinking steadily, and felt himself getting just fuzzy around the edges, just a bit. He finished the second not too long after the first, and the rain began to let up a touch, and he kicked back the chair and synced up his breathing with Robin’s, and before he knew it he was just… closing his eyes….
A sharp crack of thunder brought him awake, gasping and twisted in the blanket. Glancing at his phone, he saw it was nearly 3 in the morning; he’d managed a few hours, then.
The third bottle of Doom Bar, sitting unopened by the empties, had grown warm. A moment later, it registered that he really had to piss.
“Fuck,” he said quietly. It sounded as though Robin was still asleep, but her breathing was jerky instead of smooth, catching in her throat.
Once more, Cormoran managed to get himself up, in the process realizing he was still a bit fuzzy. Not even enough to call tipsy. He didn’t think he’d be able to get out the door without waking Robin, though.
“Fuck,” he said again, just as another incredibly loud crack of thunder boomed right above their heads, the lightning on its heels. Cormoran felt as though it had slid right through him, anchoring him to the floorboards; he couldn't move.
Robin sat bolt upright in bed, hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her wide, searching eyes met his in the foggy gloom.
Neither said anything for a long moment.
“I’m just-” he said finally. “Back in a mo’.” He managed to get out the door without bumping into any furniture; then, with no one to see him, he sat down on the stairs and slid down to the loo on the landing.
When he got back up, Robin was still sitting up in bed, watching the rain come down outside.
“It’s really bad, isn’t it,” she said without looking at him. It took Cormoran a moment to realize she was talking about the weather and not his state of mind.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Here,” Robin said, scooting over.
“What?”
She patted the bed, still not looking at him. “Come sit. If you’re not going to sleep, and my guess is you aren’t, come sit. I could use some company.”
He stood there, the crutch digging in under his arm, for a long minute. What was she- did you mean to- she couldn’t possibly-
“Come on, Cormoran,” she said, and the sound of his first name finally jolted him into focus.
“Alright,” he said before he could think about it. She patted the bed again. He knew, as he was sitting down, swinging his legs up, leaning his crutch in easy reach, he knew it was not the smart thing to do. To sit next to his beautiful assistant- partner- to be so close to her, when his tension was high, to know she was right there and if he did the wrong thing- if he said the wrong thing- if he- if-
He was on the wrong side of the bed. It occurred to him, distantly, that he was on the wrong side of the bed; Charlotte had preferred the left side, and so he’d become accustomed to the right, but now he was on the left side.
“Do you remember how it stormed after the wedding?” Robin said, her tone the same dreamy, far-off thing it had been earlier, when she was talking about the roof. “It just stormed for hours and hours, and Matthew kept calling and calling, and I just locked everyone away. And the day after that I came back to London, and cleared out the house, while he thought I was still in Masham. But the night after the wedding, and for about a week afterward, it just rained and rained.”
Cormoran, his hand balled into fists sitting atop his legs, shifted to look at her. She continued staring out the window, but her eyes were off somewhere else. Thunder rumbled, more distant now.
“And that’s all I can think about now, when it storms, did you know? I just lay there and wonder what I spent nine years of my life doing with a piece of shit who would cheat on me when I was- when I’d- and then insist on inviting her to the wedding. Why I let him tell me how I should look and what I should wear and what kind of job I should have. Why did I think that was love?”
“You were young,” Cormoran managed to say. “You were just a kid.”
“Yeah, and you know how he said I was the only fit girl and it wasn’t half a choice? He said that all the time, for years. It was like a joke, only now that I think about it, it wasn’t funny. You know, those other girls were my friends! What was so wrong with them that I was the only choice?” Her voice was more focused now, less dreamy. Harder, sharper. “Why did I date someone who only got with me because I was the only choice, anyway? You know, I nearly married him. I nearly spent my entire life with a man who was with me because I was his only choice in school. What kind of sad fucking existence would that be?”
Cormoran was completely unprepared for this. She seemed tense, but not taut and ready to snap, like he felt, but brittle, about to shatter. He wanted to reach over, to wrap an arm around her, to tell her what an absolute tosser Matthew had been. But he didn’t.
“Do you know,” and now she had relaxed back into that dreamy tone, “he kept accusing me of being in love with you. And then after you met, he switched it around, kept accusing you of being in love with me. I don’t think he ever believed me when I told him about the women you date. I mean, models and radio presenters and such. Famous, beautiful women. I told him I wasn’t your type, and he wouldn’t believe me. But you know, I suppose that was one nice thing about him. He thought that I would be your type. That’s almost flattering.”
There had never been a better opening than just now, but Cormoran sat quietly, not moving, hardly breathing. The storm seemed to have drifted past them, leaving silence where there had been the steady sound of rain; it echoed.
“Robin,” he said, her name catching on his teeth. “I-”
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I’m sure you didn’t expect any of this when you offered to let me stay. This was totally- so unprofessional- I’m-” She was blushing now, pink tracing its way from her ears down her cheeks, and Cormoran could only look at her.
“Robin, no,” he said, finally moving, finally reaching a hand out to place it awkwardly on her arm. “It’s alright. Honestly.”
“I normally would call my mum, only it’s 3 am and I don’t want to wake her,” Robin said, babbling slightly. “And you were right there and I just thought-”
“Robin, really,” he said, stroking his thumb down the soft skin under her elbow. “It’s alright.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again, eyes closed, head tilted back. “I shouldn’t’ve.”
He didn’t know what to say next. She didn’t move. They sat, in the silence of the attic, for a few minutes, the time passing slow and gentle.
“You could be anyone’s choice,” Cormoran said suddenly. Her words had been tumbling around in his mind. “You’re- that came out wrong. You’re smart, and you’re beautiful, and you’re very good at your job. You could be anyone’s type. You shouldn’t let him haunt you like that. He’s not worth the time. Honestly, Robin.”
“I just can’t-” she said, head still tilted back, looking up at the eaves. “What if he was right?”
“Right about what?”
“Oh, any of it. What if he ends up being right?”
“Well, then.” Cormoran realized he was still stroking her arm, mindlessly. Thunder rumbled again in the distance. Was it closer or further? He couldn’t say.
“If he’s right about one thing then-” then he could be right about any of it. That’s where her sentence was going. That’s what she was afraid of.
“Robin,” he said, his voice husky-soft, “Robin, love, what all did he say to you? What are you afraid of?”
She pulled herself upright, turning to face her, and her eyes were large and shadowed. “He said that- I was lucky he’d taken me back, because I was damaged goods. Because I flinched away from him, after. Because it took time.” And Cormoran knew what she was talking about, and hated Matthew perhaps a bit more, in that moment. “It took time, and I thought he was so good, so gentle, about it. But it turns out he was only doing it because- he thought he had to. Because he thought doing it made him a good person. So did he ever really love me? How can I know if someone really loves me, now? Because I thought he did, and he didn’t. So how can I trust myself to know?”
Cormoran threaded his way through the tangled thoughts she’d just articulated, and tugged on the thread he thought she was most afraid of.
“Robin, someone will love you. I know it. It’s bound to happen. You’re wonderful and brilliant and smart and you’re-” thunder cut him off, closer now, and he flinched.
This time it was Robin’s hand on his arm, her thumb stroking circles. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I just- I thought it was getting further away.”
“I did too,” she said, so gentle. Cormoran stared down at her hand, pale against his hairy arm, and let the words fall out of his mouth like stones.
“What if he was right?”
“What?” Robin withdrew her hand form his arm, looking at him, tight and wounded.
“What if he was right about one thing? Just one.”
“Cormoran, don’t- you were being so nice, before, don’t-”
“Robin, what if I am in love with you?”
The rain grew louder, as if to fill the aching silence. She just stared at him. Once more, he couldn’t look at her. He felt a moment of deja vu; it was just the same as when he’d grabbed her wrist, only a few hours before.
“Don’t say that.” Robin’s voice was soft, pleading. “Don’t-”
“What if I am?”
He turned to look at her now, and wished he hadn’t; she looked as if she were about to cry.
“Never mind. I’m sorry, Robin.”
“That’s not funny,” she whispered. “I know I’m not-”
She had thought he was joking?
“Robin, wait-”
“-as beautiful or as successful or as brilliant as-”
“Robin,” he said, reaching out to her again, twisting his whole torso so he could face her fully, “Robin, why do you think I’m joking?”
“Because-” she took a deep breath, her voice cracking, “because that’s not true, you’re not, I’m not your type, and you’re-”
“Robin, love,” he said to her again, and this time it seemed to catch her attention, that endearment, “I’m not joking.”
“You’re...not?”
“I swear to God, I have never been more serious in my life-” thunder crashed, and his hand tightened on her arm, and she flinched, and he flinched.
He took a deep breath. He relaxed his hand, his arm. “I’m serious, Robin.”
“You’re…” she glanced at his face, away to the window, back to his face. “You’re in love with me? But you can’t be!”
“Why? Because Matthew said so? Robin, I’ll never say another kind word about him for as long as I live, but he might have been right about one thing, once, in his life.”
“You’re not…” She looked at him again, in the slowly-lightening gloom that preceded true dawn. She reached one hand up, tucked her hair behind her ear. “You are?”
“Robin,” he said, feeling his stomach clenching tight, the thrumming tension of a bowstring about to snap, “what if I am in love with you? What then?”
“Well, then,” she said, and there was just a hint of a smile tugging at her mouth, just enough to let a blossom of hope open slowly in his chest, that maybe, maybe, this hadn’t been the wrong thing to say, “then I suppose…”
And she leaned forward and slid a hand around the back of his neck and kissed him, full on the mouth. In his surprise he froze, didn’t react, for just long enough that he felt Robin begin to pull away, and then the knowledge of what was happening roared through him and he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close and kissed her for all he was worth, pouring himself into it. He put every ounce of conviction into that kiss, so that she wouldn’t for a moment longer doubt that he was telling God’s honest truth.
They slipped down onto the pillows, facing each other, and Cormoran kissed her, over and over again, everywhere he could reach- her mouth, her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, her mouth, her mouth, her mouth. He let every moment he’d shoved past, every thought he’d locked away, let it all flow through him, letting it all happen now, now, now, now that she was here in his bed, here in his arms, now that she was here here here here here.
“Corm,” she gasped, and he couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying, her hands grasping his shirt at the shoulders, “Corm, why didn’t you- you never let on-” he kissed her mouth again, to stop her talking, to show her how he felt, because he could, he could. He let his free hand, the one that wasn’t wrapped around her ribcage and fisted in her- his- t-shirt, he slipped his free hand around the curve of her jaw, cradling her face in one hand, where he could feel the flutter of her pulse.
“I couldn’t- I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he managed to say, his mouth pressed to the hinge of her jaw.
A gasping giggle was his response. “I spent so long thinking- that no one- and you- this whole time-”
“Yes, sweet girl,” he said, kissing her jaw, her cheek, her mouth, “yes, yes, yes, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, yes.”
“You love me,” she said, wondering, awed. “You… love me.” She looked at him where he was braced above her side, eyes bright, as the thunder cracked overhead and he didn’t flinch, not a bit. He stroked her jaw with his thumb, feeling her heart pound in time to the rain on the roof above them both.
“I do,” he whispered around his heart in his mouth. “I do love you.”
“Cormoran Strike,” she said, her face luminous in the slowly growing dawn, her smile blooming like a flower, “is in love with me.”
He leaned down, pressing a kiss against the corner of her mouth, where all her smiles hid. “Yes, sweet girl,” he sighed into her skin. "Beautiful, brilliant girl." He felt one of her hand come up to the nape of his neck, where his riot of curls began, to scratch softly at the skin there, and felt himself shiver all over, twisting his neck to encourage her. She smiled against his mouth.
“Do you know, Cormoran Strike,” she sighed as he began to kiss her jaw, her neck, down to where the smooth, aching curve of her clavicle was bared by the oversized neck of his shirt, “I might be in love with you too.”
At this Cormoran pressed his face down into the space between her neck and shoulder. He hadn’t expected her to reciprocate, not so soon, not like this. He felt her hand go still at his nape, felt the tension re-enter her body.
“Cormoran?”
“Yeah?” he said into the smooth skin he found at the place where her neck met her shoulder.
“Are you- was that the wrong thing to say?”
“No,” he said, kissing that skin softly. “No. I just- I wasn’t expecting-”
Her hand clutched convulsively at his neck, and he pulled back to look into her face. She placed her other hand carefully on his cheek, and he let his eyes close, let himself press into her palm, as he hadn’t been able to for so long.
“I do love you, Robin Ellacott,” he whispered, eyes still closed. The rain and thunder rumbled overhead. His breathing sounded loud in his ears, but her hands were so soft, and her mouth was so sweet, and this was going to be alright. “I do love you.”
“And I-” she looked up at him with such eyes, eyes he could drown in. “I-”
“I know, Robin,” he said, seeing in her eyes what she couldn’t say with her mouth. “I know, I know. I love you,” he said, kissing her mouth, her cheek, her jaw. “I love you,” her neck. “I love you.” Her shoulder. “Love you.” Her collarbone.
In the light of a careful sunrise, he pressed his lips and his words into her skin until she couldn’t but believe him, until the sounds coming out of his mouth had no meaning at all, until he was cradled quietly in her arms, her lips pressed to his head. Until they fell asleep together in the warm golden morning, ignoring everything but the way it felt to be, at last, there.