Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even though she was just a guest in Octavia Street, it was Robin who saw Strike to the door after an evening of good food, good beer and excellent company, while the hosts busied themselves tidying up. Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe it was a ‘coincidence’ deftly engineered by Ilsa - for once, he found he didn’t much care either way. The result rather fitted his purpose.

The purpose had emerged last Sunday as he’d been ordering a certain item online. An idea had popped into his head then and somehow refused to leave. He had contemplated it over the following days, changing his mind at least a dozen times, regarding it in turns as stupid, inspired, unprofessional, splendid, and dangerous.

Now, in the narrow hallway of Nick and Ilsa’s welcoming home, he knew the back and forth was over. When he’d watched Robin over dinner, at ease, smiling and joking with his dearest friends, the decision had just seemed to make itself.

And so, he found himself asking:

“Any interesting plans for tomorrow?”

Robin smiled.

“I’ll just do some packing up. Don’t really want to leave it until the last moment. You?”

“I’m taking Jack on that day trip I promised him. You know, The Imperial War Museum?” he said, and she nodded to let him know she remembered.

“Now that actually does sound interesting,” she said.

He knew that she was kind and polite and that she was a good actress, but he still chose to believe she meant it.

“Yeah?”

“Sure. Guns and tanks, what’s not to like?”

“It’s not all guns and tanks, Robin,” he said with mock suffering, and she grinned cheekily in response.

This grin, that was his opening.

Strike, never a passive man in his professional life, knew that the last time he had truly taken the fate of a relationship in his own hands was when he had left Charlotte. Ever since then, he’d allowed romantic entanglements (and he only used the R word for lack of a better one) to form and disintegrate, neither producing a diary for the former nor bewailing the latter.

Robin was, of course, a bird of a rather different feather. And it had been more than mere passivity with her - that impressive blockade of his would have served well in the Napoleonic wars.

What wonderful results that strategy had gotten him.

Time had not been stopped from running out. Possibilities had not been kept open.

He glanced over Robin’s shoulder. Nick and Ilsa seemed to remain at a safe distance away. His eyes flickered back to her face.

“You could see for yourself.” He paused, just for a second. “Want to join us?”

He said it - he tried to say it - as if it was a common occurrence, as if they did things together every other weekend, just like that. Just like friends.

But it wasn’t, and they didn’t.

And the unsuspecting Robin stilled.

You can be a detective and still miss the clues and hints in your personal life - no one knew it better than Robin Soon-to-be-Ellacott-again. But she couldn’t help but notice that things had changed between her and Strike in the last month.

They were back to where they’d been before her honeymoon: they talked, actually talked; and worked together, not just beside each other. This in itself felt like a lungful of fresh air after a year of being locked up in a stuffy room.

But it was different, too.

Something had happened the day she’d cried out her sorrows on the motorway verge. A crack had appeared in the wall he’d erected between them when they’d first met and then painstakingly maintained for over two years; and words, gestures, and truths had begun to seep through. The information he volunteered. The open criticism of Matthew. Even this, a nice Friday evening on what was very much his home turf. All of this would have been unthinkable to the Cormoran Strike of yore, the man who had managed their friendship as if he were in a witness protection program.

So it was different. Lovely, but different. And if you added the weight of her long-buried hopes and fancies, sometimes she just wasn’t entirely sure how to navigate this old-new relationship.

“Join you?” she repeated.

“Yeah. You said you’ve never been. And,” he added, “you can keep an eye on Jack when I take a fag break,” he said.

“I’d laugh, but if I go, we both know that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” she said drily and he spread his arms in acknowledged guilt. “But wouldn’t Jack be disappointed he’d not get you all to himself?”

“Please. He’ll be thrilled to meet another witness to his hospital heroics. And I ordered this kiddy guide and had it delivered to Lucy’s, so I expect he’ll be all ready to show off and talk our heads off.”

“That was nice of you,” she said, but it was not an answer, certainly not the one he was hoping for.

Funny, he’d never really considered she might refuse. His own reticence had always seemed like the biggest hurdle to overcome. Well, an unfamiliar tingling in the tips of his fingers told him he was definitely considering it now.

“So what do you say?” he ventured again. “We’ll explore the museum, have pizza in the café, and hopefully no one will scream, puke, or set off the security alarm.”

She was looking down now, and he couldn’t even try to read her eyes.

She’d always been the one who’d wanted to shorten the distance that marked their friendship. But that had been a long time ago. Did she not want that anymore? Or did she think he expected more of her than she was willing to give, now, or maybe ever? He’d thought the company of a child whose mouth seemed to never close would be a clear enough indicator of what this trip was not going to be, but perhaps he’d thought wrong.

Her silence went on too long.

He had not prepared an exit strategy. His mind scrambled to formulate one now. He opened his mouth to speak-

But just then, she looked up and smiled.

***

“Blimey or Crikey?” Robin asks, holding up two printed mugs in the museum gift shop, where the three of them have retreated after as much exploring and pizza as they could handle. Strike, who is discussing the merits of a Spitfire construction set with Jack, looks up and narrows his eyes in consideration.

“Neither,” he decides. “But if they have a Bugger one, well, I’d pay good money for that.”

She shoots him a glance, all the more confused for his overdone Northern pronunciation of the word, but his attention is turned back to the toy. He’s grinning, a grin big enough to crinkle his eyes, and in a flash of understanding, her heart skips a beat.

Chapter Text

The Chinese takeaway had been sitting on the kitchen counter for a good twenty minutes, emitting the most enticing smells and regrettably getting colder with every passing second, when Robin, seated behind her desk, finally sighed in defeat.

“Your diet has hardened you, I think,” she told Strike, who was occupying the sofa. “But it’s seven o’clock, I haven’t eaten since noon and though I know,” she said ruefully, “that I was the one to suggest we finish with this file before we eat, I think I’m about to keel over.”

Recognizing it as the cue it was, Strike hauled himself to his feet.

“You suggested it because you expected me to say no,” he said. “You just wanted me to play the procrastinating Cormoran to your diligent Robin. Don’t think I am not on to you.”

He shot her a stern look on his way to the kitchen annex and she laughed.

This - the late hour, the dinner soon to be shared - was, to Robin’s very secret delight, by no means an isolated incident. More and more often, if they found themselves together in the office at five, they would stay after hours to swap theories, catch up on paperwork, or just do anything that needed to be done.

It felt a lot as if they were making up for lost time, although she couldn’t imagine either of them voicing such a thought out loud. And anyway, whatever it was, she loved it. She looked forward to those moments - just she and Strike in the same old office, no clients, no subcontractors... It was like before, except better, frankly. In those moments, she never thought of how childishly Matthew behaved as they proceeded with the divorce or how hard it sometimes was to talk to her mother these days.

“Will you put the kettle on, please?” she asked as she attempted to clear some space on her desk.

“Sure. I have beer upstairs, though,” Strike said. And frowned. He’d been about to say he’d just go up to his flat and be right back with their drinks. That would be the usual thing to do. Robin would not bat a single golden eyelash at that. But something made him hesitate.

Something! Surely the same something that had prompted him to invite her on his and Jack’s museum trip.

So many times had he found himself performing detailed autopsies on the corpse of his relationship with Charlotte that he could almost hear Beware of zombies! uttered - not surprisingly - in the voice of Dave Polworth. He was always willing to reflect on this fight and that lie, this word and that look, to dissect feelings - to categorize them, to give them names. Yet with Robin he’d been reluctant to do any such thing.

He knew it was there, that something... that nameless feeling he’d circled and tried to keep in check for so long. He’d tried not to disturb it, not to wake it. Any attempt to let it out of its bounds had ended in disaster.

But it was growing. Shifting. Slowly taking control.

Like now.

“You know,” he said in what he hoped was a perfectly casual tone, “why don’t we just go upstairs. Grab the files and I’ll take the food.” And as good as his word, he promptly took the plastic bag that contained the takeaway from the counter and turned to Robin.

Now that was a clear instruction if she’d ever heard one. And yet she stayed where she was, making no attempt to move from her chair.

“You mean go to your flat?” she said. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“No, to the pigeon loft.”

She held up her hands defensively.

“I’m just surprised. You do realize that the first and only time you took me up there, I had to get an actual leg in the mail first?”

“Look at you, joking about severed body parts,” he remarked. “Makes me proud.”

But Robin wouldn’t be so easily distracted.

“I mean it’s your hermitage. Hideaway. Hidey hole. It is, as word on the street has it, Cormoran Strike’s sanctuary,” she said, relishing every silly word.

It took some effort not to roll his eyes.

“It’s not a sanctuary, Robin. It’s just bloody small. The pigeon loft bit was not entirely a joke. And anyway, for all you know, I might have been throwing wild weekend parties there all along,” he said. He’d meant it as a joke, perhaps not a great one, but certainly innocent. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

Robin blinked. She glanced sideways and smiled a bit crookedly.

“You’re right. I wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t have invited me anyway.”

This was said quite brightly - she did not want it to sound like a reproof, because it was not one, not really. He was - had always been - the boss, the mentor. As such, he’d always had the right to set the rules. Her inability to stick to them, to disentangle the many threads that bound her to him and this job, was not really his problem, was it?

So no, she was not scolding him. But stating a fact of their relationship - certainly. And if it felt bold and a little rebellious to do it, if her heart beat a little faster as she said it, so be it.

Strike could not hear Robin’s heartbeat, but he could see the slight blush that now colored her cheeks and hear the determined faux cheerfulness of her retort. That feeling he was so slow to name… and surely this present plummeting of his stomach was somehow related to it… he knew it needed to be domesticated. Brought into the light and examined at last. So why not start now? Why not acknowledge that while he’d maintained the distance between them to protect himself, he’d hurt her along the way, this girl who was so open and giving - everything that he was not.

“Well,” he said. He put the bag of food on her desk. I’ve said too much, Robin thought. He was going to diplomatically hint it was better for her to go home now. But he extended his hand to her as if to help her up, and when she took it, he wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed it gently. “Well,” he repeated. “Come on. You’re invited now.”

In the softest of gestures, his thumb stroked the skin of her hand. It felt like an apology, and she squeezed his fingers back and accepted it.

***

By the time Robin gets up to leave, the food, the beer, and the specifics of the case are a distant memory.

He doesn’t ask her if she wants him to walk her to the station, just moves to put on his coat. Her reflex is to tell him it’s not necessary - she’ll be perfectly fine.

But he’s in the middle of a story about a twelve-year-old Cormoran, his uncle Ted and a legendary Arsenal game and so just this once, she keeps her silence. She smiles at him when he opens the attic door and follows him down the stairs.

Chapter Text

The morning started innocently enough.

Robin arrived in the office at five to nine. It was disappointingly empty, but there was a post-it note stuck to her keyboard and a mug of tea next to it. The note said: Summoned by bloody Justin Case, panicked call at 8.30. Back before 11. The tea was not too strong, not too weak, and still satisfyingly warm. With a sigh of contentment, she made herself comfortable in her chair and got down to work.

It wasn't until much later, when all that was left of her tea were a few meager drops, that she moved from her spot. She stretched her arms, put on a fresh kettle, and headed to Strike’s office - she had a meeting in the early afternoon and needed to retrieve a file he had apparently appropriated.

And that was when she saw it, as soon as she opened the door.

The suit, hanging on a peg on the wall.

Strike was not much of a suit man. He'd make the sacrifice if a case required it, and he’d occasionally worn the garment (always the same one, no less) for dates. Not that he’d ever announced that to Robin, but what did she have her well-documented investigative skills for? There'd been one more occasion, of course, but…

But, well. She didn’t think he was planning to crash a wedding in the nearest future.

And this wasn’t for work, either. That much she knew. There really was very little about work that they didn’t share with each other now, and certainly nothing of any importance.

A date, then?

She gently touched the hem of one sleeve. Rubbed the fabric between her fingers.

She hated feeling jealous, despised the icy coldness that was now spreading behind her breastbone. It was such an undignified, humiliating feeling. With Matthew at least, even before she’d found out the whole truth, her dislike towards Sarah had been justified by her status of the significant other. But what right did she have to feel jealous of the Elins, the Loreleis, the nameless tipsy girls? To compare herself to them, to imagine them with him, to feel bile rising in her throat every morning that she realized his flat had stood empty the night before?

None.

Who was it going to be this time?

She moved abruptly to the window. It was November already, but the office was unpleasantly stuffy today. She opened the window, letting the cold air hit her, and took a deep, steadying breath.

In some twisted way, the jealousy had served a purpose. It had been the first sign - or it should have been, at least. She’d felt its toxic prickles long before her feelings for Strike had gone beyond respect and friendship, long before she’d let herself think of him in terms that were romantic or physical.

She should have let that knowledge sink in then. She hadn’t, of course - just one of her many failings.

Her stomach clenched painfully.

There was a bloody suit, hanging on a bloody peg on the bloody wall.

What a silly girl she was. Was it her inexperience, her naivete, that had lulled her into a false sense of security over the last few months? Somehow she’d forgotten that this was even a possibility. But why wouldn’t it be? As wonderful as it was, friendship was friendship, but other things, things she sometimes found herself wondering about when she looked at his hands or his lips, were reserved for-

“Robin?”

At the sound of his voice from the outer office she almost jumped out of her skin.

“In here!” she replied, hoping she sounded at most half as shaky as she felt.

“The guy’s a nutter. We’re charging him double,” Strike said, entering his office.

He quickly took in the scene: Robin standing before the open window, tense, pale, and looking more than a little spooked.

“Everything all right?”

“Just looking for the Wilson file.” She cleared her throat. Touched the side of her neck self-consciously. Yeah, he decided. Everything was not all right.

“Forgot to give it back, didn’t I? Sorry. Must have jammed it in a drawer when Mrs. Allen barged in yesterday. Just wait a second.”

He walked up to his desk. The file was probably there - and most likely in the top drawer. But he chose to open the middle one and began an unnecessarily thorough - and silent - search of it. He still half-expected her to just throw in a non-committal comment about their pushy client - this was Robin, after all. But she seemed odd today, off her game, so why not give the true and tried method a spin? And sure enough, like a small, curious animal, she fell into the trap his silence had set.

“Going out tonight?” she asked after a while and when he looked at her, frowning, she inclined her head towards his suit. He’d forgotten it was there. Had she found out…?

“Ah. No. I need to get it dry cleaned.”

She nodded and dropped her gaze. He, however, kept looking at her.

“I do need it for next week, though,” he explained. “My aunt and uncle are coming up next week. We’re going to see a play, and casual wear for the theater is just not done in my aunt’s world.”

He could see the change in her at once. The strange tension left her body, only to be replaced with a blush that now spread over her cheeks and neck. And just then, as if it were a moment of enlightenment in an investigation, the puzzle rearranged itself to form a complete picture.

“What did you think I needed it for?” He wanted the question to sound neutral, conversational, but for all he tried, he still thought it simply came out gentle.

Robin shrugged.

“Nothing in particular.”

He was an utter tosser to rejoice in her unhappiness, no matter how temporary. But it meant hope, and hope was a precious commodity, so rejoice he did, just a tiny bit.

He could kiss her now, he realized with a jolt. He could kiss her, and chances were she would not slap him.

For a moment, he let himself consider that possibility.

No.

If anything was ever to happen between them, it was not going to happen while she was still officially married. He’d be hard-pressed to explain why this conviction had taken root in his mind - it wasn’t like he’d never dated a woman who wasn’t quite divorced yet. The best reason he could come up with was also the simplest one - that it was Robin. She deserved time, plenty of it probably, a clean start… and a lot more, but this at least he thought he could give her.

But the cautious joy that filled him now was so pleasant that he wanted to share it with her. He waited until her wandering gaze met his and said:

“Couldn’t have been a date, you know. I’m not seeing anyone. I haven’t been seeing anyone since Lorelei and I broke up.”

Robin flinched, caught out. She opened her mouth, as if to say something. To assure him it was none of her business? To tell him she wasn’t seeing anyone either? The words never materialized. It didn’t matter. He only hoped she’d understood his message.

And anyway, he’d been pondering how to broach a certain topic for a couple of days now…

“Funny you should bring up the suit, though.” He scratched his head - apparently it was his turn now to display textbook symptoms of nervousness. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.”

“About your suit?” she asked dazedly.

“About the theater.” He smiled. “My aunt and uncle asked if I could bring you along.” In answer to her surprised expression, he supplied: “They’d like to meet you. They’ve heard so much about the one and only Robin Ellacott.” He neglected to mention they’d mostly heard about her from Lucy and, he strongly suspected, Ilsa’s mother. It was beside the point. Whatever they’d learned was most likely true.

“Oh.”

The Robin who stood before him now was very different from the forlorn Robin he’d happened upon not fifteen minutes before. The moment Joan and Ted met this lovely, joyful woman… Well.

“That’s so nice of them. I… that’s the last thing I expected. Of course I’d love to meet them.” And with an impish smile, she added, “You’ve met my parents, so I suppose it’s only fair.”

“Hmpf,” was his only answer to this. He could only guess how her parents probably still felt about him.

Robin swiftly turned to close the window, then faced him again.

“So what did you say the play was?” she asked.

***

The four of them head to the theater bar during the interval. Robin is deep in conversation with Joan, but not so deep as to miss Strike placing his hand on the small of her back to help her navigate the crowd. The weight of it sends bright hot sparks throughout her body: down her arms to the tips of her fingers, down her thighs to the tips of her toes, up her exposed neck to the tips of her carefully done hair.

When she gets home, she pulls out a cardboard box from the bottom of the wardrobe and places her ticket stub inside, next to a solitary champagne cork.

Chapter Text

Robust as his ego might be, Strike didn’t believe people who worked for him owed him unconditional respect or, worse, humility. It was just - he thought glumly as he heard the office door close behind Sam Barclay - just that being called out on a slight bout of bad mood was not his idea of a pleasantly spent lunch hour.

He blamed Nick, really.

They’d gone out for a pint last night. They’d talked football and elections, touched upon the benefits of raw food diet (for cats - thank God for small mercies), and then Nick had sat back in his chair, looked Strike up and down and said:

“So, Robin, yeah? You staked your claimed there yet?”

 Well, Nick was not one to mince words. He never had been. But for once, Strike had felt mildly offended - not on his own behalf, but on Robin’s. Staking a claim, honestly. He’d sent his friend a dark look, but Nick had continued undaunted.

 “I’ll take that as a no. I suppose you expect her to figure it all out just from your grunts and smoldering looks, then?”

 “There are no smoldering looks,” Strike scoffed. He harbored no hope that Nick hadn’t noticed it was this part only that he’d chosen to deny.

 “And that just makes it so much easier for her,” Nick had said with a smirk.

His friends, Strike had thought, would be better off training their raw-fed beasts into relative obedience instead of prying into his personal affairs. He’d never appreciated it, and well-intentioned as it surely was, this time was no exception.

But later, scaling the stairs to his flat slowly, he’d reflected on the nature of his irritation. Before, it had been necessary to shut down any speculations regarding him and his very taken colleague. He still believed it had been the right thing to do. Now, however… He knew, deep down, that the reason for his reserve had changed. It didn’t sound terribly dignified, but the truth was, this thing between him and Robin, he didn’t want to… jinx it.

For now, it was safer kept just between them, untouched by other people’s expectations or advice.

Except, even later, when he’d lain in bed and sleep wouldn’t come, he’d thought: was Nick right? Would his patience and restraint only get him so far? Did Robin not realize…? He’d thought - hoped - she had. The boundaries between work partnership, friendship and more were getting blurry - he had been making them blurry deliberately. But of course, the most personal of communication had never been their strong suit. Was she watching him, waiting for signs? Was he failing, again?

He’d eventually fallen asleep, but in the morning awakening had come in more ways then one.

He’d never been through this before, that was the problem, or part of it at least. He’d never waited for a woman, never pined, never tracked and measured his chances for months… years, really. Relationships in all their forms had always come quickly: a meeting, a recognition of mutual attraction, a swift decision to act.

This… well, quite frankly, this was quite agonizing.

That’s how, weighed down with this uncomfortable awareness, he found himself teased for his grumpiness by his own subcontractor.

He heard the door again - this time, he realized with a look at his watch, it must be Robin herself, only coming in this late after a morning spent on surveillance. She didn’t call his name, didn’t say hello, but he could almost see her every step, every movement, so many times had he witnessed her little start-of-the-day routine.

Soon, completely unaware that the thoughts of her had occupied his mind for the better part of the last eighteen hours, she appeared in his door in the flesh.

Her hair was wind-blown, her cheeks pink from the cold.

He felt quite weak now.

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t notice something was off.

“I’m assuming you already know,” she said without preamble and in that instant he realized she was not smiling in greeting. She looked worried, actually, and the worry seemed to be directed at him.

“I don’t think I do.” He frowned in confusion.

Robin grimaced.

“Met Sam on my way here. He did mention you were, ah, not in the best of moods.” Obviously, she was not quoting Barclay verbatim. “So I assumed you’ve seen this.” She pulled out her phone, handed it to him. She bit her lip.

He glanced at the article displayed on the screen.

Up to thirty gravestones vandalized…

…Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park…

…spray-painted…

…include the quirky gravestone of the seventies supergroupie Leda Strike…

The hand that was not holding the phone clenched into a fist.

“Fuck.”

“I thought maybe Lucy or…”

He gave her back her phone with forced composure, pulled out his own. The screen showed no new messages, no missed calls.

“No.” Not everyone spent long hours doing surveillance that often left plenty of time for reading news of middling importance. He rose to his feet. “I need to get the car keys,” he muttered, not looking at her.

Robin watched him leave the office. Only when the door closed behind him and she heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs leading up to his flat did she let herself sigh deeply.

She could have told him the society that managed the cemetery would probably take care of it sooner or later. She could have comforted him that at least it was just some nondescript paint splatters. And yet saying those things had never seemed like a viable option.

He cared too much to be so superficially placated.

There were really only two things she could do: take the easy way out, tactfully step back and let him deal with it on his own, or help him. To be precise: force him to let her help him.

She walked back to the outer office. She looked at her desk, the screen of her computer still dark. There were notes to be typed up, calls waiting to be made.

None of it would get done today, she realized. There was no way she was not going with him, not with all the stooping and kneeling that cleaning a gravestone would require. She leaned against the edge of her desk, crossed her arms over her chest, and imagined the upcoming confrontation.

Please let me help.

Why don’t you ask for help before something bad happens, for a change.

Can you not be ridiculous just this once?

Just wait till I tell your aunt Joan.

Yeah. Their relationship might not recover from that last one, even if it did make her smile to remember Joan. She was so nice, and it had warmed Robin’s heart to see how much she cared for her nephew. And she’d seemed to like Robin, too.

Would Leda have liked her?

No one could hear this question that popped into her head suddenly, no one was even in the room, and still Robin blushed. Somehow it felt more daring to speculate on the larger-than-life figure of his mother than it did on his comfortingly down-to-earth aunt.

Well, her own mother had no qualms about daring speculations, Robin thought wryly. With her motherly sixth sense, Linda was unrelenting in her curiosity of all things Strike. The more insinuating questions Robin ignored when she could, deflected when she had to. She was not going to form any answers based on a few fleeting touches and lingering looks. Others, the seemingly innocent ones, she had to answer, even if she sensed an edge of skepticism or judgment to them. (And how old is he, exactly? He wasn’t, was the true answer. The thing about Strike was not that he wasn’t young, it was that he wasn’t youthful. Something her mother probably wouldn’t understand unless she got to know him much better.)

It didn’t help that their relationship was still a bit strained. But at least Robin now realized that a lot of her mother’s frustration was due to her wish that Robin had taken the out when she’d been offered it. Well, they had that in common. Still, her mother was trying, and so was Robin, and things were looking up. For this, she was thankful.

Strike’s tread could be heard in the staircase again.

Grateful for the distraction, Robin stood straight and braced for a fight. She was considering putting her hands on her hips in a rather theatrical, but surely transparent enough gesture, when he reentered the office, car keys jangling in his hand. He looked tired, even though he was only just setting out.

She expected a short set of instructions, but he just stared at her quietly. Poised on the brink of launching her campaign, Robin froze.

“Look, I know you have things to do,” he said eventually. She held her breath. “But if you could come with me, that’d be great. I’d really appreciate your help.”

The fighting spirit burst and evaporated. Right then, she wanted to hug him so bad that her arms virtually itched with the want. But instead, she said:

“You get some rags and I’ll run over to Charing Cross Road. There’s an art supply shop… We’re going to need a proper pain thinner, I suppose.”

He closed his eyes for a split second and the deep furrows around his eyes and mouth smoothed out. And the sight was almost - almost - as good as a hug.

***

Strike insists they take the roundabout way back, so Robin at least gets a lift home in exchange for her help. Robin asks to drive the first leg of the journey. Both wishes are granted.

They don’t speak much on the way home.

When they get out of the car, and he walks around to get in the driver’s seat, he looks her in the eye and says:

“Thank you.” He looks sideways, as if searching for more words. “Thank you,” he just says again. He leans towards her, and before she can realize what’s happening, he kisses her on the cheek, once. And then twice, except is it still a cheek if it’s so close to your jaw and your ear, and a shiver goes down your spine?

She wants more, and her hands shoot out, hands that still feel grubby even after a generous use of wet wipes. But she’s too late. He’s already two steps away, smiling softly, giving a little wave of farewell before he gets back in the car.

Things are looking up.

Chapter Text

“Isn’t it funny how you get used to the waiting,” said Robin. “You can fail at almost anything else in this job, but the one thing you’re sure to learn is patience.”

 “I don’t imagine you were a very impatient person before,” said Strike.

 They were sitting in his car, doing just this: waiting. Late Sunday afternoon was slowly sliding into evening, but this was work, and at least it promised to pay nicely. She was trying to make a small bag of crisps last a while; he was sitting with his arms crossed, his seat reclined and moved back a little for comfort. The radio was playing quietly.

 “Not very, no,” she said. “Still, spending hours on end just sitting on your arse, doing nothing but waiting for a guy you can’t help but call Reepicheep to come out of a random building. That’s taking patience to a whole new level.”

 “Not the most fun part of the job,” he agreed.

 It’s fun when it’s with you, a little voice in her head piped up, but she kept its opinion to herself.

People said spring, the world teeming with new life, was the season of romance. But lately, as the year drew closer and closer to the end, Robin had found herself inclined to disagree. The darkness of winter enveloped them, shrank the spaces in which they operated. Their heads bowed over a desk strewn with photos, only the desk lamp casting a soft glow over the scene. Sitting in a pub on a Friday evening, the cold drizzle outside a convenient excuse to get one more drink before heading out into the December night. Here in the car, streetlights the only source of illumination, snatches of a meandering conversation filling the time. If she could only put her head on his shoulder, she thought, she’d be willing to stay here forever, and it had nothing to do with a detective’s patience.

She sneaked a covert glance at him. He was watching the street, his face softer in the shadowy dark. She had long ceased to regard him in terms of simple handsomeness or lack thereof. Attractiveness, on the other hand, or… magnetism... Well, that was different. (There was another word for it, yes, but maybe too big for an enclosed space such as this one).

Fine, then. Spending eternity with her head on his shoulder was not all she’d be willing to do.

A quiet sigh escaped her. To cover it, she leaned forward and fumbled with the radio. A different station came on, Norah Jones asking some guy to take off his cool. Robin sat back, peered into her bag of Kettle crisps and sighed again. She pulled out a single crisp.

 “The last one,” she announced, holding it out to him. “If you eat it, there’s no more to tempt you.”

 He gave her an indecipherable look, but uncrossed his arms, took the crisp from her and ate it in one bite. Then he took the bag itself, held it up and poured the remains straight into his mouth.

 “Crumbs don’t count,” he explained once he was done.

 She laughed. “Of course they don’t.”

 Strike crumpled the blue bag into a ball and sent an amused glance her way.

 “That’s rich coming from an enabler like you. Two words I’ve got for you: ginger biscuits.”

 “They were from my mother,” she said primly, and he suppressed a smile. When Robin had returned from a short Christmas visit to her parents, she’d handed him homemade biscuits, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red ribbon. She’d squirmed and blushed as she’d explained the provenance of the gift, and although he only had vague ideas as to what that had been about, he’d found the flustered Robin infinitely endearing.

 “And many thanks to her. They were a wonder,” he said and meant it. They really had been very nice, as had been Linda’s gesture.

 Robin nodded slightly, almost as if to herself. She was staring ahead into the dark street, but soon she spoke again.

 “I’m bringing a tin to Nick and Ilsa’s tomorrow. Shall we just assume in advance that New Year’s Eve doesn’t count, then?”

 “You couldn’t have possibly thought that it would, Robin” he said, and she smiled softly. “You coming, then?”

 There was a beat of silence before she answered.

 “Yeah.”

It was Ilsa who had told him Robin was invited and “thinking about it.” Robin herself had never mentioned it to him until now. If she hadn’t turned up, he’d have forever pretended not to know. But it looked like they were actually going to pretend he’d known all along.

He wondered… so often now. He looked at the calendar, counted the months. She’d be free soon. He knew with absolute certainty that possibilities were no longer enough for him: what had been blurry and undefined was becoming sharper and sharper, clearer and clearer. But it would still take courage to leap when the time came.

And Ilsa hadn’t just told him she’d invited Robin. She’d also said she’d told Robin to bring someone if she wanted. His friend had looked determined but far from happy about it. To be honest, he felt very little sympathy for her on that particular front.

Incidentally, he had not been invited with a plus one. It seemed Ilsa’s tactfulness did not extend that far.

He was tired.

“Bringing anyone along?” he asked. She was still not looking at him.

“No.”

He tossed the makeshift Kettle ball from one hand to another. It uncrumpled midway, of course, and specks of salt-and-vinegar flavored dust settled on his jeans. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Good thinking. Gotta keep yourself unattached for Spanner.”

She finally turned to him then, rolled her eyes. “Sure,” she said.

“Nick and Ilsa will love having you in the family,” he went on undeterred, and, with a jolt, realized that it was true. Of course they would. Who wouldn’t? So what if… But no. Maybe it was his ego, or maybe it was sheer optimism, but he couldn’t believe they could… In fact, he was rather looking forward to Ilsa discovering she was harboring a viper in her own nest.

“You bet they would love that,” Robin muttered, as if reading his mind, but she sounded oddly deflated and he finally went quiet.

Robin did indeed feel oddly deflated.

She didn’t exactly love the Spanner-themed teasing, but frankly, it wasn’t the friendly jibes that truly unsettled her.

Nick and Ilsa’s invitation had not been Robin’s only option. Vanessa’s friends were having a big party and Vanessa had invited Robin to go with her and her boyfriend. Tagalongs more than welcome, she’d said, and Robin had been willing to go. Until Ilsa’s phone call.

She’d felt like a silly teenager. Her decision had certainly seemed like a silly teenager’s. And yet she’d still made it.

Vanessa hadn’t been too surprised by the news, but she had taken it rather coolly. So Robin swallowed her pride and, in the spirit of friendship, laid out the Strike and Ellacott saga before her, leaving little out.

Vanessa liked Strike well enough, but she owed him no personal loyalty. She also knew the Wardles and wasn’t Lorelei a friends of theirs? Robin, who’d never asked but assumed that relationship hadn’t ended in a friendly handshake, thought Vanessa might know more than she did. All of that surely made her a good sounding board. She could assess the situation objectively. She could be blunt in her opinions. She could (and did) ask if Robin thought Strike might ever be making another trip to Charlottetown, and if she did think that, was she of all people still interested?

The joke, Robin thought, had been meant to soften the blow, but it hadn’t helped much.

Charlotte had always fascinated Robin with the tight hold she’d kept on Strike, but now the burning curiosity had a different, darker edge. Robin could tell herself not to get ahead of herself, but the truth was that Charlotte now felt like a direct threat. She’s married now, he’d said. There was very little comfort to be found in those words. And anyway, deep down Robin suspected that Charlotte’s current marital status had frighteningly little bearing on the future.

If you’d already lost to a cod fish, how could you win with a siren?

The question had to remain unanswered, but the specter of Charlotte was mercifully dispelled for now as Strike spoke up.

“Look,” he started and evidently he meant it literally, because he didn’t continue until she did look at him. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t find these jokes funny.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

“Still sorry. I know you’re not interested.” He paused. “And I’m glad.”

I knew it, she thought stupidly. It was winter and darkness, not spring and the unforgiving light of day.

“You are?” she asked and prayed she didn’t sound too pathetic. The teenage girl was not welcome back.

“Yeah. And I’m glad that you’re coming. And that you’re coming alone.”

He looked so calm and his voice was so steady, she marveled, while she had the strangest sensation of blood boiling in her veins.

“Some friend you are,” she said. “You want me to welcome the new year alone?”

Not a muscle twitched in his face as his gaze held hers.

“No.”

Robin swallowed and attempted a casual smile.

“Will you serenade me with Auld Lang Syne?”

“No, but I will monopolize your attention in less unpleasant ways. So be prepared to spend the evening in the company of myself and your mother’s biscuits.”

“Cormoran, I…” There were things she wanted to say, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the silhouette of a short figure and realized they would have to wait. She sat up straight in her seat. “Looks like the waiting’s over. Reepicheep’s out of his burrow.”

***

Midnight finds them in the quietest corner of a decidedly unquiet room. He clinks his pint against her glass.

“Happy New Year, Cormoran,” she says.

“May we make it a good one,” he says back, and whether it’s this or the wine that’s making her maudlin, she feels a dangerous prickle in her eyes.

She blinks it away.

Her mind’s made up.

She leans forward, and up, and kisses him.

It’s not long or deep, but it’s also not accidental, or polite, or friendly. It is, one could say, halfway to a lover’s kiss.

He places his hand on her waist. It’s heavy and warm, and surely it’s at least two-thirds now.

She breaks the kiss; his hand falls back to his side. Their eyes meet, but in a matter of seconds the well-wishing crowd claims them. Ilsa, for once oblivious, turns Robin around and pulls her into a hug, and Robin hugs her back, so very tightly, hope and promise threatening to burst her heart.

Chapter Text

January with its New Year’s resolutions, Robin had once read, was not only the month when people joined the gym in droves - it was also the start of the ‘divorce season’, when record numbers of divorces were filed.

This little fact popped into her head as she pressed the disconnect button on the office phone: a woman eager to secure evidence of adultery on her husband’s part, the second one in as many days - and it was only the third of January. Some people who craved change, Robin thought, could be quite aggressive in their pursuit of it.

She glanced towards the closed door of the inner office, where she strongly suspected Strike was dozing after half a night spent on fruitless surveillance, and she sighed.

No dramatic change had taken place after she’d pressed a New Year’s kiss to his lips at Nick and Ilsa’s party. No one had declared anything, no one had dragged anyone to a dark corner to kiss the life out of them. No secrets had been revealed.

Instead, as had been the plan all along, Robin had stayed in Octavia Street to spend the night, and Strike had taken a cab home. He’d shaken Nick’s hand goodbye and kissed Ilsa on the cheek; and when he’d turned towards Robin, she’d felt a blush threatening, but he’d only taken her hand and squeezed her fingers tightly.

And she’d laughed.

Yes. A silly little laugh of elation and relief that had earned her a crooked smile from Strike and a mightily confused look from Nick.

And maybe she hadn’t quite expected Strike to show up on her doorstep on the first of January or to ravish her in the office on the second, but neither had she expected the kiss to go unmentioned, to be brushed off as a festive peck. Ever since the party, she had found herself in an uncomfortable state of emotional standby.

She stood up and moved to the kitchen annex. Tea hardly cured all ills, but it did offer a bit of comfort. She put the kettle on and while she waited for the water to boil, she turned on the tap to wash up the few dishes that had accumulated over the day - just a couple of mugs and some cutlery she’d used for an in-office lunch.

The problem, she thought, was that change - the good kind, at least - didn’t always just ‘take place’. Sometimes you had to make it happen. You had to give things a push. And the truth was she knew very well what push she had to perform now.

God, how she wanted this, wanted him. The want had grown and grown, until she could hardly contain it, and then it had just grown some more. Yet she still felt strangely intimidated at the thought of crossing that last boundary, of making vulnerable the feeling she’d only recently allowed herself to nurture. Everyone would know - and they would judge. Every little jealousy would sting all the harder, every harsh word would cut twice as deep. Did people always feel this way before diving head first into a new relationship? Or was it just her, or just her when it came to him?

She didn’t know. How could she, when-

“Enough in there to make two mugs?”

Robin shrieked.

A wet mug fell to the floor and broke, forks clattered into the tiny sink.

Strike stilled behind her. He waited silently as for a long minute, holding on to the counter, she took several deep breaths to the accompaniment of water flowing from the tap. Only when she finally turned to him did he ask:

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it’s not…” She looked down at herself, a small stain of tea-colored water now adorning her blouse. She held out a hand, palm open, in a reassuring gesture. “You just startled me. I thought you were sleeping.”

He had the grace not to deny it. He touched her shoulder briefly, just enough to steer her away from the annex.

“Why don’t you sit down for a while and I’ll finish up here.”

Obediently, and still in a bit of a daze, she went back to her desk. She sat in her chair and listened to the calming sounds of him making quick work of the cleaning and washing up, the opening and closing of cabinets, the click of the kettle, water being poured into two mugs. And once more, she thought of change. She thought of that first day, so long ago now, when she’d been convinced her life had just taken its most wonderful turn, and of how she’d then stepped into an unfamiliar, dingy office, of the scare she’d got then, and of the forbidding stranger who hadn’t even wanted her here.

That stranger came towards her now, the sleeves of his plain dark shirt rolled up after the washing up. He carried a mug of tea and a small saucer she’d brought from home, and when he placed them on her desk, she saw that on the saucer lay a solitary biscuit which she knew to be their last one. And she realized she couldn’t leave the office at five today still suspended in a limbo of smiles and politeness.

She looked up at him. It was surprisingly easy now not to think of menacing exes and inevitable squabbles.

“I’m divorced,” she blurted out.

Strike looked sharply at her and found her regarding him solemnly. He’d just been congratulating himself on masking his concern well, but trust Robin to throw him off balance. It was a good thing the tea and biscuit were already on her desk, or he’d have had to pull out the dust pan again.

“I mean, the decree absolute went through. So I’m single.” And she added, as if he could possibly mistake the meaning, “Free as a bird.” She made a little flutter with her hand and he laughed, startled.

One day he’d tell her - or preferably show her - the exact degree to which this news thrilled him. But surely even now he was allowed to express his joy.

“That’s good news.”

“Yeah.” She finally cracked a smile.

“Really good news,” he said. “Nice start to the year, wouldn’t you say?” It was almost a platitude, and yet… apparently she wouldn’t say that, because she grimaced slightly.

“A good ending to last year, really. I found out the day before Christmas. The afternoon I left for Masham.”

He took an involuntary step back and immediately cursed himself for it. That was not the way to do it. All those months of waiting, he’d told himself he’d give her all the time she needed. In fact, he’d gone as far as to not follow up on her sweet kiss three days ago, even though he’d very much questioned himself on that decision. And yet the moment his noble intentions were truly tested, his subconscious, on the lookout for games and betrayals, came barging forward, ready to fuck things up. To cover the blunder, he nodded understandingly, trying for a neutral expression. But his reaction hadn’t escaped Robin’s notice.

“Wait,” she said, and her hand shot out towards him. She grabbed his forearm, as if she imagined he could actually want to leave and be anywhere else at this moment “I’m sorry I’m just telling you now. I… I wanted to do it sooner, but…”, she paused for a second, and he took the opportunity to stop her.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Robin, to me or to anyone,” he said gently. “It’s your life, your divorce, your information to disclose whenever and however you wish.” He hoped she understood his words were meant to assure her, not create distance. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

The tight hold she had on his forearm loosened then, and her hand slid lower, past his wrist, until her slender fingers laced with his rough ones. He looked down at their joined hands.

“Robin…”

She rose to her feet, tall and straight, and determined.

He felt the all too familiar tightness in his chest dissolve. He took a step towards her, cupped her cheek with his free hand and kissed her.

Her lips were soft and warm, and he was gentle at first. But they opened beneath his, welcomed him, and the force of the kiss grew. He pulled her closer, closer, his hand in her hair now; her fingers were digging into his side, where her hand had come to rest.

He’d known it’d be good. He’d never doubted it.

But he’d known nothing, not really.

When they broke away eventually, it was only due to the regrettable need for air. She lay her head against his chest; her hand crept up to play with the buttons of his shirt.

“I know I don’t owe you an explanation,” she said. “But I still wanted you to know. I did want to tell you sooner. But I was on my way home and I thought, well, I wanted to tell you in person,” she said and he kissed her below her ear to show her how right she’d been - he’d loved finding out in person. She continued, “And then when I came back… I almost told you a couple of times, but I was… nervous. Silly, I know, but…”

“Not silly.” His heart was hammering; hers was beating like a hummingbird’s - he could feel it, they were co close. “I get it. But it’s going to be all right,” he said into her hair, and once the words were out of his mouth he realized - with relief, but not without surprise - that he meant them. And if this certainty, however fleeting it might prove to be, and this need to hold her and protect her from sadness… Well, if this wasn’t love, then what was it? “Do you want to go out? Today? Tonight? You, me, moderate amounts of food and alcohol. I will probably insist on paying.”

“I don’t know if you really want to,” she said, her voice lighter now. “I’m pretty sure I have a stain on my blouse after that little incident before.”

His arms tightened around her.

“We can just go to the Tottenham. They’ve already seen you at your worst.”

Without breaking away from him, she slapped him softly on the shoulder; her hand remained there, her thumb drawing circles on his arm.

“We don’t really have to go out tonight,” he said. “We’ll take it as slow as you want. But in this newfound spirit of openness, I have to say I don’t really want to wait anymore. Do you?”

She lifted her head from his chest then, looked him in the eye. She grinned.

“The Tottenham’s perfect.”

“The Tottenham it is, then.” He was grinning, too. He probably looked like a fucking idiot. “Five o’clock. I’ll meet you at the door.”

It sounded like a call to separate and regroup, but she was already snuggled against him again. Neither of them moved and he held her in silence for a good while longer.

***

They sit at their usual table, they eat what they always eat, drink what they always drink, and of course even now they can’t help but slide into shop talk now and again.

But they sit next to each other, not opposite, and he plays with her fingers as he expounds his newest theory; and they kiss at pleasantly regular intervals. The barman who’s known them forever smirks ever so slightly, and Robin definitely doesn’t think it’s because of the stain.

She doesn’t care all that much. She’s busy collecting every word, every look, every touch; trying to commit to memory all those things that can never fit into a cardboard box.

And afterwards, in the age-old tradition of besotted swains, he walks her home. They board the Tube together and take their seats to face their own reflections in the glass. He clasps her hand in his and rests them where their pressed thighs meet. She lays her head on his shoulder and settles in to enjoy the view from the other side of the wall.