Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Returning to Denmark Street one afternoon in early February, something red and glittery caught Cormoran Strike’s eye. Pausing to glance through the shop window, he groaned inwardly. It was almost Valentine’s Day. When he had been single, he had relished the feeling that he had not felt obligated to live up to ridiculous standards, attempting to create romance demanded by a randomly selected date on the calendar.

But he wasn’t single anymore. Strike now had a girlfriend, although “partner” or “love” were how he thought of her. “Girlfriend” seemed like an overly-simplistic, youthful, inadequate term. And Robin, who meant more to Strike than anything in the world, was a very talented and considerate gift-giver. Strike had already used up his best gift ideas for Robin’s 30th birthday and Christmas. It wasn’t fair that Valentine’s Day arrived so soon after the biggest gift-giving event of the year. He was out of ideas.

Strike brooded all the way back to the office, and, scowling, lit a cigarette and inhaled it deeply before heading upstairs. He had been trying to cut back but surely the dead of winter was not an ideal time to enforce new habits. As he reached the office landing, the glass door opened and Pat, the secretary stepped out.

“Just heading home,” she said. “Robin just got back about a half hour ago.”

Strike nodded, and trudged into the office, locking the door behind him. Robin was sitting in their shared office, staring intently at her computer screen. Strike maneuvered himself over to his side of the desk, and surreptitiously glanced down at the desk calendar lying on the surface.

“Fuck’s sake,” he muttered. Robin, who had been watching him ever since he entered the room, looked concerned. 

“Everything okay?” she asked. 

Strike, who had just learned that Valentine’s Day fell on a Saturday, did not answer immediately. He was busy running through restaurant ideas in his head. Good places that might still have a reservation available for what was likely the busiest night of the year.

“Cormoran?”

He sighed. But Robin’s face was showing real concern, and he knew that he had to be honest or else risk mounting misunderstandings. 

“I’ve just realized that next Saturday is Valentine’s Day,” he said. “And I haven’t planned anything.”

Robin’s mouth dropped open, and then she let out a chuckle. “I thought you’d seen something really disturbing while you were tailing Mr. Fawlty this afternoon.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I can understand you not wanting to repeat what happened last year on Valentine’s Day.”

Strike closed his eyes, more to buy himself time than for any other reason. Last year? What had happened last year on Valentine’s Day? He and Robin had not been together. He had not been dating anyone. Aunt Joan had been very ill. Where had he been?

“You don’t even remember, do you?” Robin asked him. “Oh, that’s even… Wow.”

Strike felt his stomach drop, but Robin was laughing in earnest now. He tried to form his features into a grin. Once Robin had stopped laughing, she reached across the desk, and motioned for him to take her hand. 

“Strike,” she said. “You should know that Valentine’s Day is not one of my favorite holidays.” 

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he said, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. 

“I have many negative associations with it,” she continued. “Stressful dinners at overpriced restaurants, too many expectations of perfection.” She shuddered. “Flowers.” 

“I know that you actually do like some flowers.” 

She nodded. “True. But not as a duty.” 

“Anyway,” she said. “I thought you might want to try a do-over. Max wants to have a party on Valentine’s Day, although he’s not calling it that. He asked me last week if I would mind if he invited some of his new friends from work over, and he said of course he would love to have us there.” She grinned. “Especially you. Apparently he’s told everyone on set how much you helped him with his character.”

Strike hit his forehead with his other hand. “That’s right!” he said, finally remembering the previous year’s fiasco. 

Robin rolled her eyes, and turned back to her computer screen. “I suppose when you’re that drunk, it’s easy to forget.” 

“Oh, I remember now ,” he said. “And I am still very sorry. That night - it was a turning point, wasn’t it?”

Robin cocked her head to one side and looked over at him with a thoughtful expression. “I suppose it was,” she said. “You made me cry with your apology. I remember that.” 

“Well,” said Strike, “I wish I hadn’t done anything to apologize for in the first place. This year, I promise I’ll be sober when I arrive.”

“And I promise,” said Robin. “That there will be no university students.”

Chapter Text

Despite her declaration that Valentine’s Day was merely a date on the calendar, Robin was feeling a thrill of anticipation as she dried her hair. Last year on this date she had been tired, depressed, and still officially married to Matthew. There had been no time to wash her hair last year, and she had a memory of desperately trying to conceal the shadows under her eyes with makeup. Strike had yelled at her in the morning, Morris had harassed her on the way to the Tube, and her brother had arrived on the doorstep with two of the most annoying university students Robin had ever met. 

Although it would not have taken much for this year’s Valentine’s Day to be an improvement, Robin reflected that thus far, the day had gone exceptionally well. She had stayed at Denmark Street the evening before, and while Strike had sworn loudly in her presence, it had not been due to frustration.

She had returned home mid-morning with shopping bags filled, and she, Max, and Max’s boyfriend, Tom, had spent a pleasant afternoon preparing snacks and decorating for the party. The gathering would be larger than a dinner party, but not too crowded, and they moved Max’s sofas out towards the edges of the room in case people felt like dancing. Max had filled Robin in on the dynamics of the people who had agreed to attend.

“Mostly singletons,” he said. “A few people Tom works with on the crew and maybe Laila, who plays my therapist. A few of the other actors said they’d try to come, I won’t hold my breath.” 

“Will Sir Jamie be joining us?” Sir Jamie was the distinguished actor who played Max’s character’s mentor and curmudgeonly old friend on the show. Robin had grown up watching him in various series in her youth, and wondered if she might actually feel star-struck to have the famous gentleman in her flat.

Max smiled. “He might. But he’s not too far off from his character, you know. Your Strike might be enough to lure him here though.”

So it would likely not be a romantic evening. But Robin and Strike had enjoyed many of those in recent months, and the knowledge that he would be here, by her side, was enough to make her feel warm and content.

As Robin put the finishing touches on her makeup, her phone rang. Seeing Strike’s name on the screen, she answered quickly. 

“Hello,” she said. “Where are you?” She could hear a lot of background noise.

There was a pause. “So, I’m at the Tottenham. Don’t worry ,” he said, quickly. “You won’t believe who showed up on my doorstep two hours ago.”

“Who?” Robin asked, feeling a sense of trepidation.

“Anstis,” said Strike. “He and Helly had some sort of argument and he said I was the only person who would ‘understand.’ So I took him for a drink.” 

“Oh,” said Robin, trying to calculate how many drinks the two men could have conceivably consumed in two hours. 

“I think he’s feeling better, but I’m not sure I should leave him alone. Do you think -”

“Yeah, bring him,” said Robin. “If Sir Jamie shows up, he’ll have a panel of experts to consult with.”

***

The guests started to arrive around 7:30, mostly Tom’s friends, and then, accompanied by two much younger men, and looking even more lovely in real life, the tall, buxom actress who played the therapist on Max’s television show. 

Robin was just checking her watch, wondering if Strike and Anstis had opted for one more drink before arriving, when the doorbell rang again. She ran downstairs and opened the door to find Strike, looking neat and handsome and thankfully sober, standing next to Anstis, who looked… a little unstable and not quite coherent.

Strike’s smile was a little strained. “This may not be a good idea,” he said. “But I didn’t know what else to do with him. I only had one pint, I swear.”

“You are Robin,” slurred Anstis, by way of introduction. 

“Yes,” she said, ushering them both inside. “I am. It’s nice to finally meet you. Cormoran’s told me so much about you.”

In truth, Strike had told her next-to-nothing about Anstis, and most of what she knew about him dated from the time she and Strike had been working on the Owen Quine case. She knew that he credited Strike with saving his life in Afghanistan, and that Strike was godfather to his oldest child. There had been some discussion about a dinner invitation at some point, but it had never materialized and Robin had sensed that the relationship was rather one-sided. Just as Strike began to steer Anstis up the stairs, the bell rang again, and Robin opened the door to find herself face to face with Sir Jamie Bean, carrying a bottle of Scotch and an expression of resignation.

Speechless for a moment, Robin had just opened her mouth to invite him inside when a loud “Fuck!” rang out from the top of the stairs. Looking up, she saw what looked like Anstis trying to embrace Strike, and Strike struggling to maintain his balance on the second-to-last step. “You, of all people, should remember that I’ve got balance issues,” Strike said, and pushed Anstis through to the main room. Robin turned back to Sir Jamie, who now looked moderately happier.

“Is that the detective?” he asked, as Robin shut the door behind him. 

“Yes,” said Robin. “Come up. I’ll introduce you.”

***

The common areas of the flat now seemed very crowded. Robin counted around fifteen people, including her and Max. Tom had managed to arrange for speakers and was currently adjusting a series of colored and flashing lights that he had brought with him. One of his friends had volunteered to be the bartender, and Robin saw that Strike had pushed a glass of water into Anstis’s hand, while holding a beer for himself. They were now heading to the food table. 

Robin led Sir Jamie over to Strike. Reserved as he had been with Robin, his face broke out in a broad smile as he reached out a hand to Strike. “Great honor,” he said, his voice so familiar and deep to anyone who had ever watched television, and handed the bottle of Scotch to Robin. “Max has told us so much about you, and how you really helped him get into his role.”

Anstis was staring at Sir Jamie with his mouth open. “Yer - that bloke! The one from the telly!” He looked from Sir Jamie to Strike with a delighted expression. Anstis threw his arm around Strike. “Mystic Bob here saved my life.” 

Sir Jamie looked delighted. “Did you now?” he asked Strike. Strike shot an annoyed glance at Anstis, and shrugged, and Robin, who had promised Max that she would help keep the snacks flowing, circled to the other side of the table, where they had set up a variety of store-bought and home-cooked treats, along with small plates and small paper napkins in the shape of hearts, their one acknowledgment of the evening’s official holiday.

“Excuse me.” The actress known as Laila was standing at the table, looking at the spread with a rather confused expression on her face.

“Yes?” Robin smiled at her.

“I’m gluten and dairy-free, and I was just wondering which of these nibbles I can eat.” 

“Oh,” said Robin, looking in confusion at the table. “The carrot sticks, the celery, I suppose? The grapes. We’ve put out quite a lot of vegetables - “

“Yes, I see them,” she said. She waved a hand vaguely over the bowl of dip that was obviously, thought Robin, made with sour cream. “But is the dip - “ her voice trailed off and she looked at Robin expectantly. 

“It’s dairy,” Robin said, although a small, vicious part of her wanted to lie and say it was made from soy. “It’s got sour cream.” It was feasible that this woman had a true allergy, but Robin sensed that her dietary preferences were purely for show. 

“And do you know about these?” She pointed at the miniature quiches and sausage rolls that Max and Robin had cheerfully assembled earlier that day. 

“Mmmm… pretty sure the pastry has wheat and butter,” said Robin. “And eggs. And meat? Do you eat meat? Might have wheat fillers. Sorry.”

Laila looked as though she was about to ask something else, but Robin turned her head and said, “Excuse me,” before reaching for one of the plates, and piling it with a generous sampling of finger foods to take over to Strike. He smiled at her, gratefully, and was just about to eat a sausage roll when Robin said, “Just a warning. They aren’t vegan.” 

“Are you a vegan now, Bob?” asked Anstis. “The wife tried it for about a week but gave it up. Hard to live without cheese, am I right, Sir Jamie?” He clapped the actor on the back so forcefully that Sir Jamie fell forward slightly, almost causing Strike’s plate to topple. Robin caught it in time.

“I only eat non-vegan food,” said Strike, stuffing the roll into his mouth in one go. He smiled at Sir Jamie. “Won’t even eat chips unless I know they’ve been fried in animal fat. It’s an army thing.” 

Robin, who had just taken a sip of her wine, nearly choked. 

“Is it?” said both Anstis and Sir Jamie together. 

“Where the fuck were you during food science training, Anstis?” asked Strike. Then, nodding to Sir Jamie, he said “Excuse me,” and, nudging Robin with his shoulder, steered her, his pint, and his plate of food, away from the table, leaving the two men to continue to speculate on why the army would a unique method of frying foods.

“All right?” Max was carrying an empty glass over to the bar area. His face was flushed and he seemed overly happy to see them.

“Yeah,” said Robin. “Food’s okay. How are you holding up?” 

He grimaced. “I’m not sure I’m as ready to be social as I thought I was,” he admitted. “It’s nice that so many people showed up, but I think I want them to go home soon.” He threw a glance over to one of the sofas, where Laila was standing amongst a circle of admirers. “I honestly didn’t expect her to come, especially not with the interns.” 

“Those are interns?” asked Robin, squinting in the dim light to make out the faces of the two men who were now laughing at something that Laila was saying.

“They are,” said Max. “She’s got a bit of a reputation. Not as young as you think she is. I’m not saying she takes advantage,” said Max. “Just that she likes the admiration.”

“Well, who doesn’t?” said Strike, nodding his head back towards Anstis and Sir Jamie. Sir Jamie did not seem disappointed to be stuck with Anstis, who was, undoubtedly, regaling him with tales of daring and honor. The scarring that marred the right side of Anstis’s face made him look more rugged and life-weary than Strike, even though Robin knew that Anstis led a fairly traditional existence with his wife and three children, despite his job with the Met.

Robin gave Max a reassuring pat on the back, and she and Strike moved to sit down on the sofa. 

Laila’s voice, which was very loud and more nasally than she generally sounded on the television, rang out among the others. 

“I’ve done nudity. I don’t see what the big deal is, quite honestly.”

“Exactly,” said one of the interns. He was taller than his companion, and looked marginally older, mainly due to his attempts to grow a patchy beard. 

“Yeah, like, it’s healthy for people to appreciate the human body,” said the other, whose fringe fell into his eyes. Occasionally he would attempt to brush it aside with a toss of his head. 

“Bloody hell,” said Anstis, who had wandered over to the sofa with Sir Jamie, his water replaced with another pint. “Is that Laila - ?” He said this very loudly and pointed directly at the actress, whose back was towards him.

“It is,” said Sir Jamie. “In the flesh.” Amused at his own wit, he chortled. 

“I’m tired,” groaned Anstis, and he fell onto the sofa next to Robin. There was not really enough room, and she and Strike both shifted slightly to accommodate him. He did not seem to notice. 

Strike set his empty plate on the side table, and leaned back into the sofa, pulling Robin with him. “It’s like going to the cinema,” he whispered into her ear. She giggled.

“After all,” said Laila, her voice carrying. “Tits are allowed on television after 9:00, but we’re still hung up on erect penises. Double standard. We should be celebrating the human body.”

“Still remember watching I, Claudius as a kid,” said Anstis, leaning forward and motioning conspiratorially to Sir Jamie. “My parents thought I’d found an interest in history, but I was really just holding out to see the topless handmaids.” 

“I was in I, Claudius ,” said Sir Jamie, somewhat stiffly. 

“You were?” said Anstis, falling back, amazement on his face. “Don’t remember! Did you get to have sex? Only remember the tits.”

Laila turned around to look down at Anstis. “And,” she said, a victorious look on her face. “Did early exposure to female anatomy give you a healthy appreciation of the naked body as an adult?”

“I appreciate a good pair of tits,” slurred Anstis.

Robin covered her mouth with her hand to avoid laughing outright.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Laila. The two interns backed away slightly, unsure how to react.

“I’m just saying,” said Anstis, “My mates and I snuck into 9 ½ Weeks to see Kim Basinger’s - you know. Weren’t interested in Mickey Rourke's joystick.” 

“But it didn’t turn you into a pervert,” persisted Laila. “It’s not like you - “

“Define pervert ,” said Anstis. “If you’re asking if I -”

Robin coughed loudly and shifted enough to jam her elbow into Anstis’s ribs.

“I’m just saying,” Anstis persisted. “If a lad sees a naked girl on the telly, he’s not necessarily going to learn how to ‘preciate the human form. He’s just happy he got,” Anstis paused and belched slightly. “Got away with it.” 

“Maybe in your day,’ said the intern with the facial hair. 

Anstis turned to Robin. “You’re not old like - like us - “ he waved his hand generally towards Laila, Sir Jamie, and Strike. “What do you think?”

Horrified of saying something that might cause problems for Max with his coworkers, Robin considered not answering for a moment, and then said, “Well, I don’t think it’s fair that they don’t give men equal screen time for nudity.”

The younger-looking intern nodded vigorously at this. “That’s what we were saying,” he said. “Weren’t we?” He turned to Laila, seeking approval. “Some blokes do it. If I was asked, I would.”

“Well don’t whip it out now!” said Anstis, hiding his eyes in mock terror and starting to laugh.

Strike put his beer glass on the end table and stood.

“Aaand, I think it’s time to go home,” said Strike, reaching for Anstis’s arm, while Robin helped by pushing on his shoulders and standing herself. 

Strike turned to Robin. “I’m going to give him another glass of water, a cup of coffee, and see him home.”

“I should stay,” she said. But she squeezed his hand. “Come back when you’re done babysitting.”

Anstis clapped her on the back and leaned forward, whispering loudly into her ear. “You’re nicer than the other one.” 

Robin didn’t know if he was referring to Laila, but something in his tone made her think that Anstis was actually talking about Charlotte, and for some reason, this made her grin.

Chapter Text

Much to Max’s obvious relief, the party did not last too terribly late. Laila and her entourage left shortly after Strike and Anstis, no doubt in search of sustenance that contained no offending ingredients. Sir Jamie turned out to be quite amusing, and without Strike to interrogate, he turned his attentions on Robin, and by the end of the evening, he had asked for her contact information in case he needed to consult with her.

Tom’s friends stayed the longest, and they were a fun group, dancing and laughing, until eventually they left to continue their evening someplace more flashy. Robin, Max and Tom were just finishing a basic tidying when Strike returned from his adventure. He was carrying a large box of Cadbury Roses, which he presented to Robin with a flourish. “On sale,” he said proudly. “By the Tube.” 

“It’s open,” said Robin, peering into the box. 

Strike feigned surprise. 

“How’d it go with Anstis?” Robin asked, leading him directly into her bedroom. 

“Well,” said Strike, checking his watch. “It took over an hour to drag him home. Didn’t want to take a cab, for which I’m actually quite grateful. Then I had to listen to him and Helly continue their argument for about twenty minutes before I could sneak away. Here I am. Two and a half hours later.”

“What were they fighting about?” Robin asked, sitting down on her bed and removing her shoes. 

“She wants another kid,” said Strike, sitting down next to Robin and pulling off his shoes as well. “They’ve got three, and he assumed they were done and put himself on the list for a vasectomy months ago. Apparently he just got called and she freaked out.”

“Ouch,” said Robin. 

“Exactly,” said Strike.

Robin swatted at him. “Why don’t people just talk about these things?” 

“Yes,” said Strike. “Why can’t everyone be master communicators like we are?” He slid off his prosthesis and, with a sigh of relief, lay back on the bed. “Sure as hell hope Anstis doesn’t feel more indebted to me after tonight. He’ll probably name his next kid ‘Mystic Bob.’”

“So do you think he’ll give in?” Robin asked. She nestled close to him and threw an arm across his chest. 

“No idea,” said Strike. 

“Is it wrong that I quite enjoyed watching someone else have a disastrous Valentine’s Day?” Robin propped herself up on one elbow to look at him.

“Well I certainly enjoyed not being the drunken idiot in the room. Although you have to admit, Sir Jamie enjoyed Anstis’s stories.”

“Just like Max enjoyed yours last year. Don’t forget, both of their characters are recovering alcoholics.”

Strike let out a short laugh. “True.” 

“There were actually a lot of similarities between this year and last,” said Robin, lying back down again. “That actress with her pretentious dietary requests - who asks if a sausage roll is gluten free? And all the men staring after her, just because - well.”

“I only had eyes for you.”

“ This year.”

“Hey! Not fair.” Strike rolled to his side so that their eyes were level. He looked serious. “Even last year, I only had eyes for you, except it was too painful to look at you because it meant that I’d have to admit how I felt.”

Robin reached out a hand and stroked his chin. “I know. And I’d like to think that given what we know now, under the same circumstances, we’d both act more reasonably. I know we’ve talked about this before, but I hope that if you ever have concerns about anything to do with me, that you’ll just tell me how you feel.”

“And if you don’t like what I have to say?”

“I’m sure I’d fight back if I felt it was necessary.” 

Strike ducked his head and his lips met hers. They relaxed in each other’s arms for several minutes until the sound of Strike’s stomach grumbling interrupted their tryst.

“All I had to eat were those sausage rolls four hours ago!” he said. “Don’t suppose there’re any left.”

Robin shook her head. “Max sent them home with Tom’s friends. We’ve decided to become vegetarians. I think you should try as well.”

Strike sat upright so fast that Robin was knocked onto her back on the bed. He was starting to protest when he saw the twinkle in Robin’s eye. 

“I love you, Ellacott,” he said, shifting to get off the bed. “Fancy a midnight snack?”

"The feeling is mutual, Strike," said Robin. "Happy Valentine’s Day.”