Work Text:
Strike finds himself in the office on January 1, and decides it’s mainly because he’s a masochist. With his hangover still pounding fainting in his ears after ringing in the New Year with Nick and Ilsa the night before, he doesn’t hear the sound of boots on the stairs.
“Hullo,” Robin’s voice calls out as the front door opens.
“Robin,” he says hoarsely, voice rough from disuse. He coughs, and repeats more strongly, “Robin!”
“I thought you might be here,” she says, coming to his doorway, still in her coat and gloves. She peels them off dainty, one finger at a time, as she speaks. “Ilsa texted me this morning that you’d disappeared before anyone else was awake, and I just knew you’d decided to play the martyr.”
She gives him an arch look, as though that last was only half a joke.
“I just wanted to get a head start on the new case,” he says, somewhat weakly.
“Oh, I’m sure,” Robin says, pocketing her gloves and beginning to unbutton her coat. “And I’m also sure it had nothing to do with the fact that Ilsa mentioned having some more friends over for breakfast, including a woman by the name of Caroline?”
He grimaces, giving himself away. “Caro is… yeah. It’s a fair cop, you got me.”
Robin’s nose wrinkles when she laughs, he notices. “See, Ilsa said as much. She wanted me to check in on you, since— and I am quoting— ‘I expect you were planning to go in today anyway too.’ So you see, you’re not the only one being called out.”
Strike cracks a smile in return, suddenly filled with gladness that his partner is not going to lecture him for his quiet departure and pleased that she was planning to come in anyway.
“Well, as long as we’re here,” he says. “Want to help me sort out who’s lying?”
“Actually, I had something I wanted to do when I got here,” Robin says, holding her coat in her arms. She’s wearing a pale purple sweater that looks unbearably soft to the touch— not that Strike will be touching it, of course.
“Oh, of course,” Strike says, abashed. She didn’t come in just to help him, after all. She has her own tasks to handle, her own deadlines to meet.
“Let me just hang up my coat,” she says, and goes back out of his office. In her absence, Strike goes to crack a window to clear the smell of smoke from the air, knowing as he does that Robin can tolerate it but prefers not to marinate in the fresh scent of his noxious habit.
Maybe this year he’ll finally stop smoking, he muses. He’s quit before, but always gone back eventually. That was something of a pattern with him.
The chill, crisp air from outside washes into his office, bringing with it the smell of London. Robin returns much sooner than he was expecting.
“I thought you were taking care of something,” he says to her, careful not to focus too much on her sweater. He thinks he’d remember if she’d worn it before, because the color is a departure from her usual palette, and wonders if a new boyfriend or someone gave it to her for Christmas.
“I am,” Robin says, and takes a deep breath. “Or rather, this is what I wanted to take care of.”
Strike raises his eyebrows, unsure of where this conversation is going.
“Did you make any resolutions?” she says, apropos of nothing.
Strike shakes his head. “Not before midnight, but I was just thinking about trying to give up smoking again.”
“Oh, that’s rather a good one,” Robin says, looking pleased.
“Why, did you?” Strike asks, wanting to know what on earth Robin’s on about.
“Yes,” she says, folding her hands together, long fingers intertwining. “I decided I was going to be more truthful this year, because so many of our clients end up in trouble because they aren’t truthful about their actions— or their feelings.”
There was a creeping trepidation in Strike’s stomach, making its way up to his chest.
“So I thought, well, I ought to make sure I’m not losing time or making a mess of things for myself,” Robin goes on, “so I came here, because I—”
But here she stops speaking for a moment. Strike can only bring himself to watch her, study her in the way he usually tries to keep himself from doing. The shimmer of her hair, the way her slacks cling to her hips, the glint of the slim rings she wears on her middle and pinky fingers.
“Because I thought perhaps I ought to tell you,” Robin says after taking a breath. Her fingers are white with tension.
“Tell me what?” Strike asks, as gently as he can.
She takes a gulp of air, not looking at him directly, and the words burst out of her: “That I’ve gone and managed to develop feelings for you. Rather inconvenient ones, really.”
She looks over at him, and Strike hasn’t the faintest idea what his face is doing because he can’t seem to feel it. This is— not what he was expecting at all. She gives him a smile that’s hardly more than a press of lips.
“I am sorry about that. I promise it won’t affect our relationship at all, I won’t be awkward around clients or anything, I can be perfectly professional and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”
“Robin,” Strike says, and his voice is catching in his throat now. “Do you mean that you— that you— for me?”
She looks rather miserable, but determined to see this through. “Yes. I am sorry—”
Strike shakes his head. “No, please, I just— I wasn’t expecting—” He comes out from behind his desk, and Robin stands very still as he approaches her. He feels rather like he’s trying to soothe a skittish colt as he comes closer. “I never thought you…”
“I know,” Robin says, biting her lip. “I was trying to— to wait it out, you see. I thought that it would fade over time, but it hasn’t.”
“Over time?” Strike asks, hope suffusing his heart in much the same way as nicotine. “Could you— how long?”
“Months,” Robin says, glancing away.
“Months,” Strike repeats. “And you never let on.”
“I didn’t?” she asks, looking back at him, surprised. “I thought for sure you’d figured it out, that’s why you were— withdrawing from me. I thought if I just got it out in the open, we could try to— to move past it.”
“We could,” Strike said, taking another step towards her. “If you’d like.”
Robin nods. “It’s probably for the best,” she says, lips red from the imprint of her teeth.
“I’ve just decided on my new year’s resolution,” Strike says, nearly close enough to reach out and touch her arm now.
“Have you?” she asks. “What an odd time to do so. What is it, then?”
“I’m going to take more risks,” he answers.
“More risks,” Robin says, “however will you surv—”
But here she is cut off, because true to his word, Strike takes a risk, and steps forward to slip his hand under her chin and tilt her face up to be kissed. It’s gentle but firm, a press of lips, but there is a promise of heat behind it that cannot be mistaken.
“Oh,” Robin whispers when Strike pulls away. He doesn’t go far, keeping his hand beneath her chin. Their eyes meet, and he doesn’t dare look away. “That sort of risk.”
“Well, perhaps I’ll also take up parkour,” Strike says, the joke escaping him before he can stop it. It makes Robin smile, though, and he therefore counts it a success.
“Or perhaps you ought to do that again,” she says, in her sweet whisper, and so he does.
As it turns out, that lavender sweater is just as soft as he'd thought it might be.