Work Text:
“Happy Christmas!” Robin and Ilsa exclaimed at the same time, kissing one another on the cheek and then going in for the full hug on the Herberts’ doorstep.
“Come in!” Ilsa cried, standing back. “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she scolded as Robin passed her a bag tied with a bow.
“It’s only little, a contribution for tonight,” Robin excused herself. “I couldn’t turn up empty-handed.”
Ilsa smiled at her and took her coat, hanging it on the peg. “Come and meet everyone,” she said. “It’s a bit formal, sorry - most of the young crowd were busy, and we’ve got Nick’s parents here and mine. The siblings managed to wriggle out of it, but a couple of neighbours have popped in. Oh, and Corm’s here.” She giggled.
Robin looked at her. “Why is that funny?”
“Wait till you see him.”
Robin nodded, and followed Ilsa through to the kitchen. She could see the dark bulk of Strike out on the patio, his back to the door, his huge coat on, bottle of Doom Bar in one hand and cigarette in the other. She watched as he blew a cloud of smoke into the grey Boxing Day air, thick with the steam from his breath in the bitter cold.
Ilsa nudged her, and she pulled her attention back to her friend. “He looks normal.”
Ilsa chuckled. “You’ll see. White wine?”
“Please.”
“Robin!” Nick, appearing round the corner, gave her a big grin and a kiss on the cheek. He was very fond of his wife’s new friend. He and Robin had found a connection in the kitchen while Robin was staying with them after she left Matthew, enjoying cooking together and working as a practised team, whipping up meals that Ilsa and Strike gladly wolfed down. Curry night had briefly become weekly, and home-cooked. It happened less often these days, and was back to takeaways, but they had enjoyed working together. Robin missed him, seeing more of Ilsa these days as they shopped while Nick worked weekends. She gave him an affectionate squeeze. “Happy Christmas.”
“You too,” he said. “Just grabbing another beer for dad, think they’ve decided they’re getting the Tube home.”
Ilsa nodded. “Good,” she said. “Be nice for them to relax. Try and steer them towards Una and Geoff from number 73, I think they’ll get along. Geoff used to drive buses, he and your dad can discuss London geography.”
Nick laughed and nodded, and took his dad’s beer back towards the lounge.
The doorbell rang, and Ilsa passed Robin her wine. “Back in a mo.” She hurried off down the hall.
Robin moved to greet Strike as he let himself back into the kitchen, cheeks pink from the cold, sliding the patio door behind him and checking it was properly closed.
“Hi,” she murmured, and he looked up.
“Hi.” He grinned, and leaned to kiss her cheek as she reached up to hug him. He smelled of cold air and smoke.
“Happy Christmas,” they said in union, and Robin giggled. She stepped back as Strike turned away, removing his coat and hanging it over the back of a dining chair. He turned back to her, and her hand that wasn’t holding her glass flew to her mouth.
Strike rolled his eyes a little, and his cheeks were more flushed than they had been just from the cold. “Don’t.”
“Oh, Cormoran, what is that?”
His brown jumper, which she had briefly mistaken for his burgundy half-zip from the back, was emblazoned with an enormous Christmas pudding on the front. It was snow-capped, with a jaunty sprig of holly, and big enough to perfectly encompass and enhance his belly, which had not benefited from a surfeit of Christmas food. It made him look...rotund.
Her eyes found his, twinkling with mirth, and he gazed back at her defiantly. “I think I’m helping Nick win a bet. I’m not sure yet.”
Giggling, Robin asked, “What do you mean?”
Strike took a swig of his beer. “Nick and Ilsa gave it to me yesterday, and there was something about them. They were giggling at each other. There’s some kind of bet between them, I’m sure, about whether or not I’d call them on it, and whether I’d wear it.”
“And?”
“I thanked them with great enthusiasm and wore it today.” He grinned. “I’m pretty sure Ilsa would think I’d refuse, and so if I wore it Nick wins. But it could be a double bluff, they know me well enough to know I’d work that out.”
“But they also know you well enough to know you’d work that out, too.”
“Yeah. And they know I hate an unsolved puzzle. I couldn’t work out how much bluffing was going on. But I thought, fuck it. This is surely the option they’d expect less. So I’m wearing the bloody thing.”
Robin laughed. “Well, it’s...a statement.”
He grinned and struck a mock pose. “How do I look?”
She hesitated. “Cuddly.”
He snorted. “Fat, you mean.”
Robin giggled. “That’s not what I said. But let’s just say it’s not slimming.”
He laughed, unperturbed. “I know. Christmas isn’t a time for slimming.”
“Tell me about it.” Robin nearly hadn’t worn the jumper she had picked for today, a soft pale blue one that had fitted perfectly when she’d bought it that first winter after she left Matthew. She’d been much thinner then. It was a little small this year.
Strike glanced down, and hurriedly pulled his gaze away from where the soft material stretched across her breasts. There was no way he could tell her how utterly sexy she was or how much he preferred her curves to when she had slimmed down so much for her ill-fated wedding.
“You look very nice, as always,” he said blandly, hoping his cheeks weren’t any pinker.
Robin flushed a little and hid her face in her glass. “Thank you, Mr Darcy.”
He frowned a little. “Pride and Prejudice? I don’t get the reference.”
Robin chuckled. “I meant Mark Darcy, not Fitzwilliam. Bridget Jones.”
“Ah.” He nodded wisely. “Chick flick.”
“Indeed,” she replied, grinning. “But when the heroine first meets the hero, he’s wearing a hideous Christmas jumper.”
“So does that make you Bridget?”
Robin realised where the analogy was leading and blushed again. “Only for the purposes of this conversation.”
Strike laughed. “So, you had a good Christmas?”
Robin nodded. “I did. I was glad I’d done it the way I did, actually. It was lovely to be in Masham for the preparations and midnight mass, and for Christmas dinner. And the roads were empty on Christmas afternoon, I made it back in no time, satisfied in the knowledge that I was missing my brothers bickering and Rowntree puking on the rug because everyone sneaked him a piece of turkey or a sausage even though they all know he’s not allowed. It’s the same every year, and mum gets so cross and everyone denies it despite the graphic evidence right in front of them.”
Strike laughed. “Sounds like you timed your escape perfectly!”
“I did,” she said. “And it was nice to talk to you last night, thank you.”
He smiled down at her, so handsome it made her stomach lurch. “Any time. I remember what it’s like, that first Christmas night on your own. It’s just weird.”
Robin nodded. “It is. I thought I might feel a bit lonely, but I actually felt more lonely earlier, watching them all get tanked up on red wine while I sat and drank tea.”
It had meant more to her than she could express, chatting to her partner the previous evening. He’d rung, he’d said, just to wish her a happy Christmas and to check she’d got back okay, but they’d talked for nearly an hour. Robin had sipped her glass of Bailey’s and looked at her little tree with its sparkling lights, and listened to Strike’s familiar deep voice in her ear telling her about Christmas lunch with the Herberts and Ilsa’s parents, and she’d felt more at ease, more Christmassy, more...at home than she had at her old kitchen table in Masham.
He smiled down at her now, and she wondered if it had meant as much to him, or if he really was just phoning a colleague for a chat.
On Christmas Day.
His eyes held hers, dark and mesmerising, and for a moment the Herberts’ kitchen faded. There was only Strike, with his riotous hair and ridiculous jumper and warm smile. This big man who had come to mean so much to her, particularly in the last year or so since she’d finally got rid of Matthew and could be who she really was.
“Robin, Corm!” Ilsa’s voice broke into their conversation. “Come on, into the lounge, please. We’re dividing into teams for Trivial Pursuit.”
Robin jumped a little, flushing, and Strike stepped back. They turned to Ilsa, who was rummaging in the fridge now, her back to them.
“Help yourselves to top-ups,” she said, and Robin moved towards her to take the wine bottle from her outstretched hand.
The afternoon passed swiftly into evening, darkness falling early at this time of year. Robin found herself on a team with Nick’s mum and Ilsa’s dad, and they did a passable job. The winners by far were Strike’s team, his extensive knowledge of just about everything carrying his team of Ilsa’s mum and one of the Herberts’ neighbours. Robin watched him covertly, joining in the game with a good grace, still somehow sexy in his silly outfit, the Christmas pudding not distracting her from his dark eyes, strong hands, deep voice... She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate on the next question.
Before Robin had realised how much time had passed, it was into the evening and dark, and she was wondering about her journey home.
Strike spotted her at the front door, hesitating by her coat, as he came out of the downstairs loo. “You going?”
“I was thinking about it.”
He moved down the hall towards her. “Stay a bit longer? It’s a good party.”
She nodded. “I’m just... It’s getting late, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get a taxi.”
“Stay,” he pressed gently. “I’ll see you home.”
“I couldn’t ask you to do that.” Her heart was fluttering suddenly, her fingertips tingling. They were alone in the little hallway, and the way he was looking at her...
“Maybe I’d like to.” His gaze was dark, hooded.
She sighed a little. “I’m sure I’d be fine, the Tube will be running. I just hate travelling alone at night.”
“That’s understandable.” He smiled gently. “I’ll take you home whenever you want to go. Now, if you like.”
“I thought you and Nick were going to open the whisky?”
He shrugged. “I can come back. Do you want to go now?”
Robin hesitated. “No.”
He smiled. “Good. Come and try this whisky, it’s amazing. And let me know when you want to go.”
Robin nodded. “Thank you. Sorry for being a pain.”
“Robin.” He tilted his head on one side. “You’re not being a pain. I’d do the same for Ilsa, or Lucy.”
She grinned, cheeky. She didn’t want this little moment between them to end. “And here was I thinking you were offering because you like me.”
He grinned back, and took another half a step closer. “No, I’m just being a gentleman. But I do like you.” He paused, his eyes looking deep into hers. “I like you just the way you are.”
Robin gasped, tears prickling in her eyes suddenly. “You have seen it!”
Strike laughed a little. “Lucy forced me to endure it one Christmas.”
Robin gazed up at him, trembling. “So...”
He smiled down at her, stepping closer. “Apart from my jumper, we don’t really fit the characters, do we? I don’t look anything like Colin Firth.”
Robin gazed back at him, heart hammering. “I don’t know,” she murmured, pretending to consider. “You’ve got the curly hair and dark eyes, and I think you’re pretty good-looking.” She blushed.
Strike was still smiling, still holding her gaze with his. “But you’re not nearly as annoying as Bridget.”
Robin giggled. “I hope not.”
He took a deep breath. “Although, like book Bridget, you’re way sexier than you think you are.”
“You’ve read the book too?” She was drowning in his eyes, so close now, barely able to breathe. She could smell him, smoke and beer and spice.
His hands found her arms, drawing her close, one hand sliding around her back. “Research,” he murmured, and kissed her.
Even though she’d been expecting it, Robin jumped as their lips met. How often had she wondered, since that accidental meeting of lips a year and a half ago, what it might be like to properly kiss him? She had dreamed about it once, and hidden behind her monitor all the next day, blushing whenever their eyes met.
This was different, though. So...real. He was more insistent than she had imagined, his tongue meeting hers, his arms sliding around her and pulling her body against his, the softness of his stomach against hers and her breasts pressed to his chest. He growled a little at the feel of her and kissed her harder, and she clung to his shoulders, kissing him back, a little lightheaded at the feel of him.
Finally he drew back, and rested his forehead on hers. They were both breathing unevenly, and Robin was pretty sure she could feel the beginnings of the effects of their kiss pressed against her thigh.
“Wow,” he said, and she laughed. “Wow indeed,” she replied, her hands sliding up and around his neck. He pulled her harder against him, and she knew she wasn’t imagining anything.
“You’re so sexy,” he murmured. “Did I mention that?”
“You did.”
“And I really want to kiss you again, but I think I’d better not.” He grinned, unashamed, and Robin blushed. He knew she’d felt him.
“Maybe later,” she suggested. “When you see me home?”
“I might hold you to that,” he replied, and then it was his turn to blush at the literal meaning of what he’d just said. “I meant—”
Robin giggled. “You can hold me to it all you want,” she promised, and watched his eyes darken at her words. She liked surprising him. She knew he thought her to be quite proper.
“Now, you promised me a whisky?”
He nodded and stepped back reluctantly. “I did.”
To his delight, Robin tucked her hand into his as they headed down the hall towards the kitchen. She was pretty sure no one at the party would be in the least bit surprised at this evening’s turn of events.