Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all began on a Sunday. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, in fact, like many Sundays, it was actually a very dull, tedious day. Strike had got up late, and after he’d eaten and watched one of the Sunday morning football programmes, he was beginning to feel a bit cooped up, so he decided to get some air. He walked slowly, enjoying a smoke and the smell of the city after rain. It wasn’t long before he noticed he was being watched. He kept the knowledge to himself, letting his observer continue unimpeded, waiting to see what they were up to. 

It was a young man, tall and broad, probably well able to handle himself if an eventual altercation was the intent. His face was serious, grumpy even, his hair a sandy blonde, and the attempted subtle concealment behind a rotating postcard stand was mildly ridiculous given his size. Strike crossed the road and approached the newsagents, and the young man tried to make it look like he was fascinated by a chintzy shot of red-coated soldiers and Horse Guards Parade. Strike walked past him, into the shop, bought a copy each of The Mail on Sunday, The Observer and The Sunday Times, and came out again. He expected the watcher to try and dissemble further, so he was surprised when the lad turned to him as he emerged.

“Mr Strike?” He asked, nervously.

“Yes?” Strike replied, surprised. “Who wants to know?”

The boy blushed readily, his cheeks glowing.

“I need to speak to you about something,” he said, earnestly.

“All right,” Strike said carefully, and nodded back towards Denmark Street. “My office is that way.”

“No, I can’t go there, just in case I see… look, it won’t take long. Can we just find a bench or something?” The boy was adamant.

Strike nodded, and they walked a little further until they found something suitable for two large-framed males to occupy comfortably.

“What’s this about then?” Strike asked when they had sat down.

“I need to give you something. I don’t really understand how it works, but she said you’d need to use it soon, and that my job was to give it to you,” the lad said, reaching inside his denim jacket and pulling out something resembling a brown, palm-sized pebble, with a number of indented grooves along the one side. He turned it over in his hands, like it was something very unfamiliar to him.

“What is it?” Strike asked, leaning forward, drawn to the odd little trinket, as though it glowed in the dampened grey of the London day, even though it really didn’t.

“It’s a torque compressor. It gives you options, shows you all the ways things can work, or not,” said the sandy-haired boy, handing it to Strike. Strike took it from him, his brows beetling as he looked at it, and then back to the boy.

“And why do I need this then?” He asked, not even slightly believing that this was anything other than a mildly surreal prank, and wondering if there were cameras secretly filming him for some nonsense TV show, expecting Michael McIntyre to jump out of the bin next to him at any minute.

“She says, you need to see all the possibilities so you can choose the right one. She says she only knew what had happened back then when she found this, and she knew it had to come back here to you because it was a closed loop, like a bootstrap paradox. And she asked me to do it, because it wouldn’t work if she did,” the boy gabbled quickly.

“Ok,” Strike said, still completely skeptical and uncomprehending, but humouring the lad. “What do I do with it then?”

“You press the buttons on the side,” the boy said, gesturing to the indentations. “It’s a bit trial and error, I don’t understand it myself, but depending on which ones you touch, and which combination you do it in, you can go back in time and observe, or change things, or reset and have another go, and there’s the one I’ve pressed which is the one she told me to, which is go back for a set amount of time and not need to bring it back again. So I can leave it here. With you. Oh, and you need to know that if you decide to stick with one, you have to put the torque compressor in a box and not use it again so it can get back here, to you,” he said, before putting his hand through his hair, ruffling it, and standing up.

Strike looked up at him, trying to assess if he was likely to be a danger to himself or others. He was a bit jittery, but he didn’t have the strung out manic air of someone in the grip of psychosis.

“Is there someone you need me to call?” Strike asked kindly.

The boy grinned widely, seemingly happy to have completed his task and ready to leave.

“You could call my mum, if you like,” he said, and suddenly darted away, moving surprisingly quickly for a lad his size. Prank then, thought Strike, but he sat on the bench a little longer and Michael McIntyre stayed in the bin. He shook his head and bundled up the newspapers in a roll under his arm as he stood up. He looked at the brown pebble, smirked, and slipped it in his pocket as he went back home.

Later that day, Strike phoned Robin to ask if she wanted to come out for a drink. He was, notwithstanding pranks, rather bored today, and nothing eased that sort of feeling so well as Robin’s company, even if they just chatted about her landlord’s suggestions for possible new accommodation for Strike, or Pat’s new vape flavour that even Barclay had remarked smelled suspiciously like weed.

She was delighted to get out, having just got off the phone with her mother, who was apoplectic about Matthew and Sarah having a baby. Having to listen to her mother and dredge up everything about her and Matt all over again had put her thoroughly out of sorts, and it didn’t take long before she was three glasses down and in danger of getting kaylied. As much as Strike enjoyed getting drunk with her, he also knew the difference between being happily merry and drowning melancholy sorrows, so he gave her a coke and suggestion to pace herself and maybe talk about what was pissing her off.

“Y’know, the ‘talking thing’ you’re so keen on,” he said lightly, as she took a very large mouthful, pulling the lemon slice out of her mouth and grimacing.

“Oh, I’m sick of talking about him and all that shit,” she grumped. “It’s not my bloody fault he’s parading her around the town, and honestly, if I never have to even think about what a shit he was, and how I wish I’d never bloody married him I’ll be quite happy.”

“Sorry,” said Strike, a little helplessly.

“‘S not your fault is it? What were you supposed to do, burst into the church and knock over the flowers and say ‘I object!’ Oh, you did that anyway,” she grinned, grateful for some black humour in the midst of her miseries.

“I didn’t say ‘I object!’” Strike protested, but he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to say, because she was suddenly crestfallen again.

“Fine,” she said sulkily. “You didn’t, no.”

There was a pause, and she hiccuped.

“D’you know he ripped the dress? ‘S why I’ve not worn it since the night before Chiswell, you know, was made dead, with the pills and the face thing,” she slurred, pulling her cheeks flat in a half-arsed imitation of the way they found Jasper Chiswell, suffocated with a bag over his head.

Strike was mildly amused at the blackest of black humour, a sure sign she was really quite far gone, but also that she really had begun to develop the coping mechanisms peculiar to those in their profession. But the first part of her statement prevented him from laughing.

“He ripped the dress ?” Strike repeated. “The green one?”

“Yup,” Robin emphasized, slapping her palm down on the table firmly and then wincing because she’d done it too hard. “Yup, the bastard was horny and I didn’ wanna, and he just-” she made a gesture with her hands, pulling them apart, “-ripped it.”

She looked into the middle distance for a minute, and Strike was dumbstruck. He worked through what she was telling him. 

“He… he attacked you?” He asked, incredulous at the prick he had never liked, and had never wanted to spark out more in his life.

“Well, I dunno ‘bout that. He didn’ get ‘nywhere. Dickhead,” she said, becoming more incoherent. “Lying sack of shit, blocking your number and deleting y’re messages so I wouldn’ know you wanted me back, an’ I wish I’d done something then so he cud just fuck off and have a baby with her and no one wud care. Bollocks,” she said, and her head dipped down into her hands.

Strike was truly blind-sided. He knew some of this, of course, but the sudden insight into exactly how awful Matthew had been made him angry and heartbroken and wishing he could do something to prevent Robin from ever needing to be this upset again.

“Shall we get you home?” He asked, and she looked up, her face ruddy and tear-stained, and nodded.

“‘S’pose,” she said, sadly. “Put me back in m’box on my own, ‘n I can juss be alone and sad and alone.”

“C’mon,” Strike stood, and pulled her up too, reaching down for her coat and pulling it over her shoulders. “You’re not alone, you daft bint. But you are gonna need to sleep this one off.”

At home again, having made sure Robin was safely deposited in her shared house, Strike rolled through his fury at what he’d heard. He hated men who treated women like that, hated them with something deep and visceral, and the only comfort here was that he’d had Matthew’s number from the get-go. But he hadn’t known nearly enough about who the man was in private, and he’d actually spent all the time Robin was married to the fucker thinking everything was hunky dory between them, and even resenting them, and he sat in his armchair now thinking about all the opportunities he had squandered to stop any of it from happening. If only he could go back in time and do it differently, make another choice, take a different step, and stop her from being hurt…

He leaned his head against the back of the chair and sighed, and suddenly, the bizarre events of his morning flew into focus. The large lad with his odd prank, and the little pebble that was still in the pocket of Strike’s coat, over the back of one of the upright chairs. Strike looked up, pushed himself out of the armchair and walked over to his coat, fishing the pebble out of the pocket.

In the dim light of his small flat, illuminated only by his lamp, the pebble really did seem to glow, and the indentations down the one side were much clearer in the darkness than in broad daylight. This was bloody ridiculous. There weren’t such things as magic time travel pebbles, or torque suppressors or whatever the fuck the boy had called it.

But what if there were? What if I could go back and stop it from ever happening? What then?

Strike rubbed the pebble, finding it satisfyingly tactile to hold, and his thick thumb rubbed over the indentations. He didn’t know if he had meant to apply pressure, if there was a thump of curiosity, however small, underneath his incredulity, but whether he meant to or not, the pebble flickered brighter at the press of his thumb on the indentations, and the room around him dissolved like melted wax, and he found himself in the passenger seat of a stolen car, with Shanker beside him.

“Are we tryina stop this wedding, Bunsen?”

Strike looked at him.

“Yes, Shanker. Yes, we fuckin’ well are.”

Chapter Text

Strike chewed his thumbnail nervously as Shanker sped on. If he was going to do it differently, what would he do? He ran through the conversation with Robin in the pub. His first, honest thought was walking right up to the smarmy fucker Matthew and lamping him, but he realized that probably wasn’t going to be effective beyond being supremely satisfying.

He thought of his memories of how she looked that day, completely radiant when she saw him, such a contrast to later in the day, when they had held each other on the stairs and that crazy idea of asking her to run away with him had tried to struggle free. By then she was hurt and sad, and all the things he wanted to prevent.

“Cheer up, Bunsen,” Shanker said, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs, weaving and undertaking as they got closer to Strike’s big moment. “Might never happen.”

“Yeah,” Strike replied. “Put your foot down.”

“You say that one more time, you’re fucking walking, pal.”

Strike folded his arms tightly and chewed the inside of his lip.

“What you gonna say, then?”

“I dunno. Last time I didn’t say anything. Just stood there like a lemon while she said I do and look how that turned out,” Strike said.

“You what?” said Shanker.

“Sorry,” Strike said, remembering that Shanker had only done this the once, from his perspective. “I suppose I’ll think of something.”

His mind on the pub conversation, he again thought about Robin talking about his original blustering entrance and her slump-shouldered disappointment that he had not said ‘I object’. Could it be that simple? Just walk in and shout, in a packed church, that he objected to the wedding? It was as good a plan as any, and it was better than just doing the same thing again, surely? What was the point of this if he didn’t change anything?

His mind full of questions, he willed the car to go quicker. When it finally screeched to a halt outside the picturesque church, Strike hauled himself up and out of the car, bellowing at Shanker to stay put. He propelled himself forward on even a good leg that felt like jelly, and got to the heavy church door. 

Fuck, he thought. Can I do this?

An image of Robin’s tear stained face swam in his mind, and he took a strong, full breath in and entered the church. He recalled the interior, and saw the usher approach him to tell him to wait at the back as the vows were completed.

“...Robin Venetia Ellacott, take this man, Matthew…”

Ok, now or never. Whatever that actually meant when he had the power to travel in time. He pulled in more oxygen, drawing himself up to his full height, and projected his deep, rumbling growl across the genteel setting.

“I object!” 

The entire church turned to look at him. He’d felt like an idiot the first time, when all he’d done was topple over a flower display. At least that time, he’d had the compensatory pleasure of seeing Robin glowing with joy at seeing him, even as she was saying ‘I do’ to another man. This time she had turned with everyone else, but she’d looked startled and confused. 

The vicar smiled wanly and leaned toward Matthew, saying something inaudible. Matthew shook his head, looking with absolutely unadorned contempt at Strike. That Strike could have handled. But Robin, blushing furiously, unable to look him in the eye, was like a lead weight in his gut. The ushers were stepping forward, and though moving Strike when he didn’t want to be moved was not an easy task, the big man was looking at Robin’s reaction and feeling as though there was no solid ground beneath him, so he stumbled to the back of the church. 

A ripple of murmurs swept through the church, and the vicar was deep in conversation with the bride and groom. Well, he was mostly talking to Matthew, while Robin picked at the flowers in her bouquet. Shit.

“So what’s the objection, mate? You married to her already?” said the usher who had told him to wait at the back of the church the first time round.

“No,” Strike said, his eyes on the bride who was still tantalizingly out of reach. “I’m not.”

I’m not even her boss at this point. He wondered if he should have gone back further, maybe changed sacking her in the first place, do something different then.

“Right, and do you think she’s being coerced?” Said the sneering usher. Strike still couldn’t take his eyes off Robin. Honestly, yes he did, but how could he explain that the bride appeared to be acting of her own free will now, but that her husband to be was a complete cock who was going to spend the next year manipulating her and lying to her, and fucking another woman?

He tried to form a sensible sentence, but looking at the disastrous results of his intervention, he conceded defeat and shrugged off his interlocutors and stomped out of the church. Outside Shanker was leaning on the car, smoking.

“On your own, then? She didn’t go for it? Bad luck, Bunsen,” he said. Strike rubbed his face, trying to wipe away the past twenty minutes of failed and pointless gesture. 

“I need another go,” he said, and reached into his pocket for the brown pebble.

“Wassat, then?” Shanker asked, stubbing out his smoke.

“It’s a… I don’t know really, it’s a torque thing. Suppressor or Compressor, something like that,” Strike said, turning it over to get a clearer look at the indentations.

“Wassit for?” Shanker asked, eyeing up the unremarkable looking object to see if it looked valuable, and quickly losing interest.

“I’m not completely sure right now,” Strike said, distracted, unable to see the indentations clearly in the bright daylight.

So, objecting hadn’t worked. Maybe just physically stopping the wedding would give him the opening he needed. He didn’t really understand how the torque worked, but he hadn’t had to do anything but think about where he wanted to get to the first time, and his memory had taken him to Shanker’s suggestion in the car. He needed to think this through a little better this time. He had to have some sort of plan beyond bursting in and saying he objected, which was true enough, but without any legal standing or power to stop the wedding, and indeed had only served to embarrass and upset Robin, the opposite of his intent. 

There must be another entrance to the church, one he could use and sidestep that wanker of an usher. If he could get in and create a distraction that didn’t automatically lead to him, he might get a chance to talk to Robin, and talk her out of it. So, he had half an idea, and he wouldn’t need to go back as far, so he thought about the car scraunching to a halt outside the picturesque parish church and rubbed his thumb along the indentations, hoping, in all senses, for the best.

The scene around him, Shanker included, melted like wax again, and he was back in the passenger seat of the stolen car, his hands against the dashboard as Shanker braked hard. Strike was up and out, and this time, he carried on past the main doors, looking for a smaller vestry entrance further on. He found it, and tentatively pushed at the door, which gave with a protesting creak. Inside, the musty smell of old books and wood polish was strong, and the only light inside was from the small leaded lights on the external wall. His eyes took a second to adjust to the gloom after the brightness outside. A distraction that would stop the wedding, something that would just give him time enough to speak to her. He could make a lot of noise in here, pull a bookcase over and then leg it. But they’d surely just send the fucking ushers to investigate if they cared at all.

“You’re running out of time again,” Strike muttered to himself under his breath, and then his eyes fell on the small, square, red fire alarm and he grinned. It was perfect. He crooked his elbow, and jabbed it sharply against the glass which cracked open, and he pressed the button inside, and immediately a cacophony of noise rang out, painfully loud. He turned to the door quickly, pulled it shut behind him and lolloped as casually as he could towards the other doors. He was just there when the guests began to emerge, all of a twitter at the drama. Eventually, Robin and Matthew appeared, and when Robin caught sight of Strike, he was immediately gratified to see her broad and bonny smile.

“You came!” She exclaimed as she approached him. Matthew stood with what Strike presumed was his father, scowling.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to leave it on a sour note. You look beautiful,” he said, and he meant it.

“Thanks. You look… well, you look terrible,” she laughed. He gave her a lopsided grin.

“Look, I’m not staying, I just, I needed to speak to you, say I’m sorry and that I want you back,” he stammered out the words, watching her eyes widen.

“What?” She managed.

“I want you back, and I don’t want you to marr-”

“Robs, sorry to break up the chat with your old boss, but we can go back in, it was a false alarm,” Matthew called, clearly delighted to have broken up the intimate moment. Strike wanted to grab her arm as she turned, but it was the arm that she had bandaged up, and he didn’t know what else to say to stop her going back in that church, what else that would mean she would be happy to come with him instead.

She turned back to him and smiled.

“Stay, ok? Please. I’d like us to talk afterwards. Promise me?” She said, and Strike nodded, but he was already looking over at Shanker and forming a plan for his next attempt.

Chapter Text

"You want me to do what, Bunsen?"

"Kidnap the vicar," repeated Strike.

"You don't think just telling her how you feel might be easier?" Shanker said, looking at Strike like he'd grown another head.

"I'm trying!" Strike protested. "But it's not as easy to get to her as you might think. I think I'm on the right lines with a distraction, I just need a better one, and earlier."

Shanker looked at him for a few more moments, still utterly incredulous, while Strike leaned eagerly forward, his elbows on his knees, still chewing his thumbnail.

"You know, I always thought you were really fucking clever," Shanker said, shaking his head, the note of derision unmistakable.

"Thanks," said Strike distractedly, missing it.

Shanker snorted.

Strike had gone back a little further, to before the beginning of the car journey. He thought if he could start earlier and shave a few rest stops off, it would get them there in enough time to execute his audacious plan. Shanker parked the car and they both got out.

"There's a vestry door further round," Strike said, and as they turned the corner, he saw the bridal party pulling up at the lychgate. "Come on, we've only got a small window here."

"I thought you said there was a door!" Shanker said, grinning.

"I did," Strike said, blinking in confusion for a second after he caught a glimpse of Robin emerging from the car and then realizing what Shanker had said, added, "oh, for fuck's sake!"

Once at the vestry door, Strike nodded at Shanker who, despite his reservations about the wisdom of the plan, was never averse to a risky, ill-advised endeavour. Shanker nodded back, and flicked out his knife, loosening his shoulders in preparation.

Strike clapped him on the shoulder and made his way back to the main entrance. Robin was already through the lychgate, on her father's arm, and she spotted Strike at the door, raising her hand and smiling widely when she did. He lifted his hand in response, and for a second considered a last minute adjustment to the plan of just stopping her before she went in. Now he thought about it, that would have been a more straightforward option, but he'd already unleashed Shanker, in a move that even Shanker thought was needlessly reckless, and could now see no way to change course.

He went inside, and Wanker Usher directed him to a pew. He looked around and saw Matthew standing at the front of the church with his best man. The vicar was, gratifyingly, nowhere to be seen. Strike waited. He expected some movement to start soon. Matthew had turned and caught sight of Strike sitting in the central pew, his face falling into the scowl that Strike was beginning to think of as Matthew's 'wedding face' which he was finding mildly amusing.

From outside, Strike noticed the muffled sound of raised voices. He expected the disappearance of the vicar to create a bit of a stir, but this sounded slightly more intense than he expected. He strained his ears over the hushed chatter from the waiting congregation, and caught snatches of shouted conversation.

"...call the authorities…"

"...doing here, Shanker?!"

"...fucking bit me! A fucking vicar!"

Strike pieced the fragments together, and, still sitting in his seat, closed his eyes and dropped his head down in despair. A few seconds later, he looked up again, just in time to see Robin storming into the back of the church and scanning the congregation with a face like thunder. Strike winced when her flaming gaze fell on him, smiled sheepishly and raised his hand half-heartedly. She jerked her head back towards the door and stalked out again. Strike got up and followed.

When he got out into the sunshine, he saw Shanker holding a bunch of tissues against his left hand, Robin's dad talking to the vicar, who looked rumpled but unharmed, and Robin, standing with her hands on her hips.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" She demanded.

Strike hadn't really pictured having to explain this bit; his plan had involved this bit working and then getting to speak to Robin in the lull while Shanker drove around for an hour with the vicar.

"I...er…"

"Because it looks to me like Shanker just tried to kidnap the bloody vicar at my wedding!" 

"Well, he…"

"And it's only because Shanker didn't factor in that this vicar is ex-forces and well able to defend himself against a dodgy bloke from London that he didn’t!"

"Really? Right…"

"And beyond that, why exactly is a dodgy bloke from London even in Masham to be trying to kidnap a vicar anyway?”

Strike had been trying to respond, his mouth continually trying to form words which would make coherent sentences, but Robin was unstoppable.

“He…”

“And while we’re on the subject, why are you in Masham for a wedding you didn’t RSVP to, to watch a woman you sacked get married, when you haven’t bothered to contact her since you did it-”

“Ah, well that I know the answer to, cos I did phone and I left messages, and I know my number’s been blocked by-”

“Did any of the messages warn me you were on your way with Shanker to kidnap the local vicar?! Because I must have missed those completely!”

“Well, no cos I only decided that after trying to set off the fire alarm didn’t work,” Strike said, and watched her eyes get even wider. Time travel wasn’t nearly as logical as he might have expected. It was quite difficult to keep the different events straight in his head, because what was a linear sequence of events to him was obviously nothing of the sort to everyone else. He wanted to grab the words and stuff them back in his mouth, but the damage was well and truly done, and not really by anything he’d said, but by the ridiculous madcap scheme he’d concocted.

“Go home Cormoran. I don't know what you’re playing at, and to be honest, this has all been quite stressful enough. I might phone you when I’ve calmed down. If I ever do!” She snapped, and she hitched up her skirt and walked into the church, followed by the rest of the bridal party.

He had actually managed to make things worse, because now she was furious with him, and didn’t know Matt had blocked Strike’s number and deleted his messages, so the little bit of leverage Strike had was useless. He knew he couldn’t stay in this timeline, but he needed to give some thought to what his next move was, because this tactic wasn’t working. He put his hands in his pockets and walked forlornly with Shanker towards the car.

“Sorry, Shanker. Does it need a bandage?” Strike said, looking over at the scrunched tissues Shanker gripped against his hand.

“Don’t think so, I’ll just have a mark. It was the shock more than anything. A vicar! Bloody hurt though. Got any more bright ideas?” Shanker said as he got in the driver’s side.

“Not really. I’ve completely cocked this up,” Strike said, pulling his seatbelt round himself. “She doesn’t even know he’s been messing with her phone now. She might never, and I’ve got no way of telling her, because he blocked me.”

“Well, that seems like information she should ‘ave, if you ask me, Bunsen,” Shanker said, removing the tissues and flexing his hand, the red welt of teeth marks clearly visible. Strike nodded thoughtfully. He’d wanted to stop the ceremony, like it was the natural hinge, but actually, there was nothing final or irreversible about being married. She’d got divorced from the smarmy fuck eventually, hadn’t she? There were other ways to skin a cat, and Shanker was right, there were things she needed to know, and once she did, Strike would have that necessary leverage again, and he could use it better this time.

He pulled the brown pebble out of his pocket, concentrated on the do over point, and rubbed his thumb down the indentations, watching the now familiar melting of the timeline around him, and finding himself in exactly the same place, but having just screeched up in arrival, he got out and pegged it to the main church door, ready to play the part of clumsy boss, come late to the wedding.

Wanker Usher came forward as he entered, and it took all Strike had not to flick the Vs at him, but instead, he nodded and stepped back, on cue, into the flower display, which clattered over loudly.

“Sorry,” he said, and saw Robin’s beaming joy at his unexpected arrival, feeling his heart lift both in relief at the memory restored, and the fact that she was indeed looking at him like that while saying ‘I do’ to another man.

Chapter Text

Strike watched Robin walk out of the church past him, looking so bloody beautiful his heart felt like it was glowing out of his eyes. He had Shanker follow the minibuses to the reception and asked him to hang around until later.

“Might ‘ave another kip in the car, you know, Bunsen. Like a little holiday, this,” Shanker had said.

Strike took up position, sat on the steps to wait for her to approach him. In his memories of this moment, he was almost completely spent, exhausted from fighting off Donald Laing and then travelling in the car with Shanker. He had a little more physical self-possession this time around, but the disorientation of time travel was cancelling out any advantage this may have given him. When he saw her walking towards him, he stood, straightening out his crumpled suit.

“I want you back,” Strike said, just as before, and just as before, Robin had blinked in surprise.

“What?” She’d said, the tiniest hint of a quiver in her voice.

Before, Strike had felt his blunt statement was too revealingly ambiguous, and had hastily added the clarifying detail about having her job back, but now, as he said it again, he registered that it didn’t even make sense to need to clarify it - he wouldn’t have wanted her back in any other way, because he’d never had her in any other way. All he’d managed to do with the added detail was highlight his tired mind, betraying things he had tried so hard to keep hidden, even from himself. 

Strike was now years from this point in his relationship with Robin. He knew her better, and not just the nasty details of the debacle he was standing at the genesis of, but knew who she was as a person far more closely. Could he say things that needed saying, that he was too tired and emotional to say before, and do it eloquently?

“I want you back, well, I want you, for work, to have your job back, and whatever else you want. Completely.”

That would be a no, then.

Robin cocked her head to one side, and Strike wasn’t surprised, because he’d managed to completely mangle what had at least been a straightforward statement in the original timeline.

“You didn’t have to be so dramatic, you know, bursting into the church like that. You could have just called,” she told him.

Strike was still mentally kicking himself for stumbling over that easy first hurdle. If he could have done it again, he’d have just repeated the statement and seen what conclusions she drew from that. Yeah, that would have worked better than burping out another stream of incoherence about the job. Maybe next time that’s what he would do. But this attempt wasn’t over yet, and it wasn’t knocked off course yet either, so he persisted. Besides, he suddenly realized, this was the key conversation about the phone tampering. 

“Well, I tried, but your new husband blocked my number,” Strike said.

“He did what?” Robin looked at Strike askance.

“I don’t know when you told me he did it, but he definitely did. Ask him,” Strike said.

Robin looked incredulous, and then shot a glance over at Matthew, who, Strike noticed, had his wedding face on.

“How on earth do you know he’s done that?” Robin asked, “I don’t remember telling you anything of the kind.” Strike stopped and mentally backtracked through the conversation. He realized this particular perspective wasn’t actually one he could have had at the time, and he stood for a moment, scrabbling for a plausible response.

“It’s a digital thing, I.. I get a message from your phone to say I’ve been blocked. All very hi-tech, something to do with Sky...net, I think,” he lied.

“Right,” said Robin slowly. “So clearly not an actual thing. Is this a really odd joke?”

Strike brought his hands up to his face in exasperation and groaned.

“No!” He said, losing his patience. “No, it’s not a joke. He blocked your number, and he’s a devious little shit, he fucking ripped that dress that makes you look like a goddess, and he’s shagging that blonde bird behind your back.”

Robin looked like a startled rabbit, and to Strike’s horror, backed away a few steps.

“Cormoran, are you ok?” She asked warily.

“Oh, fuck,” Strike exclaimed, realizing this one was a bust too, and stomping away, his hand already in his pocket for the torque.

The melted timeline rematerialized back at his entrance to the church, just because he wanted to see her encouraging smile again, and he spent the rest of the build up trying to remember exactly what he would have known at this point in their history, as well as trying to figure out what form of words he could use that would be different to what he said before, but not so different they made him sound like a nutter.

When it came to the retread of the first conversation at the wedding, given his disastrous overplaying his hand the first time, he tried the subtle retread he had thought of, but it was far too subtle and the conversation proceeded beyond that point pretty much as it had in the original timeline. He watched her march past Matthew and demand that they talk, after she had pleaded with Strike to stay, and he began to wonder if this was all just a huge mistake. Still, at least she knew about the deception with the phone now. Maybe that knowledge was a tipping point and he should focus his energy on events later in the wedding, try and catch her at some other point. 

He recalled how he’d watched her sitting at the top table, looking so lost, wishing there was some way he could take her to one side and tell her he was there, she wasn’t on her own, that she shouldn’t need to feel alone on her wedding day. He worked out that there must have been a row, because they were late to the wedding breakfast. Timing issues weren’t an unusual factor in the weddings he had been to, but the more he thought back to that moment, probably coloured by everything he had grown to understand since, the more he knew how unhappy she had been. The thought spurred him forward, remembering why he’d made this journey through his past in the first place, so he could make things better for her. He was drawn out of his pondering by the announcement of the first dance, and he shoved his pudding down him as sustenance for what came next, still completely unsure of how to change things.

Chapter Text

Strike found himself, as the first time he had done it, reluctant to leave the table to go and watch Robin dancing with that prick. When it had happened in the original timeline, he’d been ravenously hungry and exhausted which had certainly made the cheesecake a more appealing alternative than joining the gawking guests to watch his partner dancing with her new husband, all the hopes he couldn’t even name properly dashed.

Now he had blistering clear memories of doing it, knowing what it had looked like and how he had felt, and with the opportunity to do something differently, he half wondered if just sitting and finishing the other half-eaten desserts on the tables around him might prove a better use of his time. He stared at the white table cloth a moment longer, steeling himself to get up, and then pushed the chair back so abruptly he drew the glances of a few of the other stragglers.

The strains of the song began and he swallowed hard as he entered the room with the large space made for dancing. He couldn’t lift his eyes to the scene yet, still too befuddled by how he felt to know what he was going to do. When he did look, he felt it hit him hard. He couldn’t see Robin clear at first from this angle, all his could see were the absurdly jaunty shoulders of the dickhead, bopping about to a song that wasn’t jolly or jaunty, and the very fact that the dick was so pleased with himself set Strike off on another rumbling temper.

As the couple spun, and Strike walked further round, Robin’s face came into view. She looked happy enough, and he knew that the first time this had been part of what had pushed him into despair enough to just walk out, but now, knowing what he knew, and indeed, knowing her as he did, he could see that it was a mask of propriety and convention. It was almost more heartbreaking to see the truth of it. Knowing that she was already so unhappy, knowing that she was about to face over a year of misery at this bastard’s hands was making Strike so angry that his fists were clenching as he walked slowly past the other guests. All the weepy smiles at the scene, as though it was the very zenith of romantic beauty, rather than the horrific sham Strike knew it to be, were pressing very different buttons this time. 

He made his way to a gap in the assembled circle of guests, and stood for a moment, his eyes on her face, feeling the stomach drop of knowing, even while still not quite being able to say it, how he felt about her. He’d felt jealousy before; fiery, burning jealousy that had gnawed at his guts. But this wasn’t that. He wasn’t jealous of the dickhead. He didn’t want to be him, or be in any way like him, and the idea of performing this ritual with Robin putting on a brave face in his arms was actually repellent. No, this burning feeling was angry protectiveness, the same kind of feeling he had felt when he was a teenager and watched Whittaker with his mother, and wanted to knock the fucker’s teeth out.

Before he realized what he was doing, Strike had stepped forward, onto the dance floor, and was advancing on the dancing couple. He vaguely registered the volume level of chatter going up among those watching, and Robin saw him before Matthew, who was still obliviously and infuriatingly bopping to the sad song. Strike put his hand out to Matthew’s shoulder, and the other man stilled and turned, and before he could fully adopt his wedding face, Strike’s elbow had pulled back and his fist had been propelled into the bastard’s nose. He felt the crunch of it beneath his knuckles, and watched Matthew stagger backwards, one hand flailing to try and retain his balance, the other over his stricken face.

“Cormoran!” Robin had cried, and Strike had felt the red mist fall away. He was sorry, but only for Robin’s shock. He felt every ounce of pleasure possible from seeing Matthew humiliated.

“Cormoran?!” Matthew was exclaiming, “He just attacked me, your husband, and the first thing you say is his name?!”

Strike unclenched his fists, aware that the circle of guests was now a crowd of people around them, some stunned, some coming to Matthew’s aid, at least one trying to hold Strike back, though it was no longer necessary. He stood now, his anger vented, looking at Robin who looked back at him with an expression of incredulity mixed with something else he couldn’t quite place, before her attention was dragged away from him by Matthew making a dramatic dive to the floor worthy of Cristiano Ronaldo, wailing loudly.

“He only came here to do this! He’s always been jealous of me! He’s broken my fucking nose!” Matthew was crying out, and Robin knelt next to him. Strike recognized the practical, level-headedness she had in heated situations like this, and couldn’t help admiring it, even while the feelings of regret started to sweep through him.

“Let me have a look,” she said, trying to angle Matthew’s head to see what the damage really was. He was bleeding from both nostrils, his mouth drawn out into a rictus of agony more appropriate to impending death.

“I can’t believe you let him stay,” Matthew was saying loudly. “You literally invited him to sabotage our wedding!”

“For god’s sake, Matt, I didn’t know he was going to punch you!” Robin replied, still trying to assess the damage and plucking a tissue from her cleavage to dab at the parallel lines of blood coming from his nose.

“Oh, didn’t you? This is why I did what I did, because he’s a dangerous liability! You should have fucking thanked me for doing it,” Matthew was waving towards Strike, who still towered over him.

“I don’t think we need to talk about that here again-” Robin said, attempting to pour oil on troubled waters.

“Why not? I think I’ve proved I was in the right. I’m pressing charges, I’ll hang him out to dry, I’ll fucking ruin him!” he replied, getting up a head of steam with an audience now.

“Matt, stop it, you’re not helping, you need to calm down,” Robin snapped.

“Oh right. Taking his side, aren’t you? Why am I not surprised?” Matthew sneered.

“What does that mean? I’m not taking sides, I’m asking you to calm down-”

“Well why aren’t you taking sides? I’m your husband, you just promised to take my side! Unless you want to break your vows to me the minute you make them!” He said loudly, and Strike could tell a vindictive performance when he heard one; he’d heard enough of them from Charlotte.

“Matt, enough!” Robin said, and Strike heard the anger in her voice. He knew he couldn’t stay in this timeline, this foundation was cracked and broken already, the results of his impetuous lack of self control a disaster more calamitous than any that had gone before. But he didn’t want to just turn and walk away from her when he’d put her in this situation, even if this timeline was going to dissolve like wax around him once he moved on. 

Robin looked up him and he felt the regret furrow his brow as he met her eyes. She stood and put her hand on the top of his arm, pulling him a little way from the prone figure of her husband on the floor.

“Oh, that’s right, go to him, prove me right again! I knew you and him were something, I knew it!” Matthew called from the floor.

Robin’s cheeks flamed red, but she turned her attention to Strike.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, before she could say anything.

“You should be. What you’ve done is inexcusable,” she told him, but he could hear that though she was angry, this wasn’t the appalled exasperation from the timeline in which Shanker had attempted to abduct the vicar. He supposed that made sense; she knew about Matthew’s deception now, and her unhappy realizations were only going to continue. Strike knew there wasn’t anything he could really do to change that. 

“I didn’t want to hurt or embarrass you. I shouldn’t have come,” he said forlornly, dropping his eyes to the floor. He thought of what had spurred him to do this, all the brutal revelations about Matthew’s behaviour, including the ripping of that beautiful dress, and how Strike had wanted to make it all better. He wondered now, as he stood here, if he was the reason the marriage was doomed. He started to form a plan for his next timeline jump, right back to the end of the Lula Landry case, where he would change his decision to buy her the dress, so that all this confusion and heartache just disappeared. Maybe he’d get over her in time too, if he did that.

“Yes, you should,” Robin replied. “If you hadn’t come, I’d have never known what he did with my phone, and honestly, I might never have seen you again, and I don’t think I ever want to be in a world where that happens.”

Strike looked at her face, stunned. He wanted to take her hand and run out of the building with her right there and then, even though he had already decided he couldn’t stay here. But the desire to do it crystalized his next move, and his hand closed around the pebble in his pocket and Robin’s sad smile was the last thing to dissolve around him.

Chapter Text

As the grounds of the wedding venue materialized around him, he heard his feet scrunching heavily on the gravel beneath him. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled the torque compressor out to look at it. In the darkness, the indentations along the side were glowing clearly, and he could see tiny glowing words above each one. ‘Reset’, ‘Change’, ‘Observe’ and ‘Relinquish’. He walked purposefully towards the stone staircase, and when he reached it and began his descent, each step was like another piece of the adventure slotting into place as he worked through what he knew about the mysterious trinket that had made all this possible. Each time, the pebble had connected with his memories and when he had somehow put pressure on a combination of the indentations, he had travelled to the spot he had thought of. He wasn’t certain, but he deduced that being more careful, and deliberately pressing only one of the indentations would lead to much more specific results. By the time he reached the bottom of the staircase, he had stored away his conclusions and slipped the torque into his pocket again.

“Cormoran!” Robin called to him, and he turned, with almost reverent gratefulness, to see that vision of her at the top of the stairs, her hair in those long loose waves under Yorkshire roses.

“Did you mean it? Are you sure?” She said, breathing hard from her jogging run to catch him.

He took a hard, desperate breath in through his nose, determined he wasn’t going to fuck this up.

“Yeah,” he said, “I am.”

He walked back to the bottom of the steps as she began to come down them. There was no preamble as he climbed towards her, no need to tell her he would give her a proper contract, no need to mention the success with the Shacklewell Ripper that owed so much to her work too; there would be time enough for those details. Now he wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him, and feel the squeeze of her arms round him, her head nestling into his shoulder in the hug that had consumed his thoughts for years now, because it had felt like he’d never been in a more right place in his life than her embrace.

He let himself sink into it, and the way she smelled, and this was it. He had already relived this moment more times than he’d used the torque, and he knew exactly what he wanted to say. He pressed his whole self into the hug for a few moments more, not to gather courage or determination but simply because he was about to risk everything and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to hug her again if she responded badly to the words he had already said in his mind over and over. Pulling back finally, he didn’t wait for her to speak about getting through the rest of today.

“Come with me,” he said, not moving his hands from her waist, his voice low and earnest. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open a little, and a small huffing, laughing breath escaped from her. They looked at each other for a long sweet moment, and Strike could barely breathe. He didn’t want the moment to end, but then she looked back over her shoulder briefly and he thought all was lost. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face, and the few tears that had rolled down her cheeks, then he saw the small smile appear on her lips as she turned her head back to him.

“Ok,” she whispered. Strike could feel that swinging stomach drop he had when he’d seen her dancing reverse, like the upswing of a rollercoaster, and he could feel the space between them closing again, but not to a hug they had both tried to convince themselves was platonic this time. This time he was going to kiss her, and she was going to kiss him back and he had never felt so in love as when their lips met. The kiss hurt; his injuries from Laing were still very real, and he couldn’t fall into it the way he wanted to, but it didn’t matter. This was the first of many kisses, a lifetime of them.

He took her hand and led her down the steps, and they walked briskly away, Strike jubilant as he felt the curl of her fingers in his. When he tapped on the window to wake the sleeping Shanker, Robin was laughing to see who his chauffeur had been.

“You didn’t have to make him wait in the car!” She said.

“I did if you didn’t want him rifling through everyone’s pockets for valuables,” Strike replied as his friend woke up and grinned.

Strike opened the rear passenger door for Robin to climb in, and she hitched up her white dress to do so. He picked up the material that still draped generously out of the door, and climbed in after her.

“Hello Robin!” Shanker said in greeting. “Where to, Bunsen?” 

Strike looked at Robin, who smiled at him.

“Take us home, I think,” he said, and Robin nodded.

Strike sat back and pulled his seatbelt on, Robin settling herself in the middle seat with the waist seatbelt round her middle. He stretched his arm out to welcome her to lean in to him, which she did, and the fall of her gentle hand onto his chest, next to where her head now lay against him too almost made him want to cry. He pressed a kiss down onto the top of her head.

“Are you ok?” She asked when they had been travelling in companionable quiet for some time.

“Yeah,” he replied hoarsely, “you?”

“I think so,” she said, and Strike felt his chest constrict a fraction as he heard the note of uncertainty in her voice.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, and she sat up and his arm fell into the space between them. In the light from the orange motorway lights speeding past as Shanker drove them all south again, Strike could see from her expression that the giddy, impulsive excitement that had taken them away from her wedding had died away.

“I just… I can’t help thinking about my parents. The mess they’re going to have to deal with now. They’ve put so much into today, and I just walked out and drove away,” she said, and raised her hand to her face, rubbing her lower lip.

Strike heard her concern for her family, and tried not to be hurt that she hadn’t been thinking about what wonderful things lay ahead of them. 

“D’you want to go back?” He asked, hoping even as he offered the possibility that she wasn’t going to say yes. To his relief, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I don’t.”

He was pleased to hear it, but she wasn’t smiling, and the enormity of what they’d just done was beginning to dawn on Strike too. He’d just broken up a wedding, turned up unexpectedly, made sure the bride had learned her husband had lied to her and in the maelstrom of high emotion, convinced the bride to run away with him. As much as he had wanted this, fantasized about it happening, the cold reality of it was starting to seep into his bones, and he felt like he’d dishonoured her.

If she had been overjoyed and remained so, perhaps he would have more willingly squashed his misgivings as moralistic indulgence, and been happy to just selfishly pursue his desires regardless of consequences. But she sat looking at him, and he could see the stress sparking behind her blue-grey eyes as she ran through all the problems she had created and now felt responsible for. He had stopped her living out over a year of a doomed marriage, and prevented all the awful memories she shared with him in the pub of the fallout from it, but he had merely replaced them with another set of painful memories. Perhaps if he now threw himself into making her happy, it would compensate for beginning their relationship on such rocky ground, but as Strike worked his mind through the other events he knew were in their future now he knew that they only stood a chance against the buffeting waves of life if they had a firm foundation, and he knew they didn’t.

“It’s not that I don’t want this,” she said into the silence. “I just… I don’t think I wanted it to start like this.”

“No,” Strike replied sadly. “Me neither. I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I just don’t know how to do it right.”

Robin put her hand over his. “Perhaps if you’d talked to me beforehand, I might never have gone through with the wedding in the first place,” she said.

Strike snorted. 

“Believe me, Robin, I tried.”

He turned his hand over and took hold of hers, coming to a final decision, one that broke his heart.

“There are so many things I wanted to say to you, and opportunities I wasted. But in the end, what’s happened, happened, and I can’t change it, I know that now,” he said, and reached into his pocket for the torque.

“What’s that?” Robin asked, but Strike shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, and lined up his thumb against the ‘Reset’ button. “I just need to tell you something. I am sorry I wasted all those opportunities, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make things any less painful for you. But I’m so glad you’re still in my life so I can try and not waste any more, and try and make sure you don’t have to make any more bad memories.”

With that, he closed his eyes against her tearful, melancholy gaze, and pressed the indentation firmly, only opening them again when he was back in his flat, alone, late on a Sunday evening.

Chapter Text

Strike woke the next morning feeling like he’d been on a week-long forced march, and as he worked through the events of the previous evening, he realized that he had managed to cram about a week’s worth of events into his adventure. In the end, his decision to quit had been as much about mental and physical exhaustion as it had been about what he’d learned through the experience.

He dressed himself, and left the torque on the table, making his way slowly downstairs to the office. Robin arrived a short while later, looking the worse for her evident hangover, and Strike had already made her a cup of tea which he handed to her with some paracetamol as she sat down.

“There you go,” he said, and she smiled, wincing against her headache.

“Thanks,” she said. “Did I make a complete prat of myself?”

“No, you didn’t,” Strike said ruefully.

“Ok,” Robin replied, “that sounds intriguing. What happened?”

Strike shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

It was true enough. Nothing happened, nothing had changed, he had simply gone home after seeing her safe, and gone to bed with the leaden weight of the past on him, knowing he could never do anything to change it. But as he had made his way down the stairs that morning to the office before she had arrived, Strike ran his mind again through his well meant but ultimately doomed attempt to rectify the mistakes of the past. If any of his ruses had been truly successful, would they have actually led to the happy-ever-after he sought? Even when he did, finally, get it right, he had willingly let it go because he knew neither of them were ready. Could it be that, as painful as it had been to live through everything - all the miscommunication, resentment and stubbornness - they’d both managed to grow as people in that time, and become closer anyway?

Robin was looking at him curiously.

“Are you ok?” She asked, and Strike remembered the last time she’d asked him that, from his perspective, in the back of the car as Shanker drove them away from her wedding. He was suddenly as sure as he possibly could be that he’d made the right decision.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, smiling broadly, noticing incidentally how much better it was to not have a constantly injured face. “Listen, I know we’ve got a full day today, but can I take you out later?”

Robin started in surprise at the question, her mug of tea hovering a few inches from her mouth.

“Ok,” she said. “Any particular reason?”

Strike shrugged. “Just enjoyed our talk last night, thought we could carry on, but with food, which always makes everything better,” he said.

Robin blinked, and put her mug down.

“Hold on, you’re taking me out to dinner?” She asked, surprised.

Strike breathed in through his nose and registered that he’d accidentally managed to ask her on a date, and that he could backtrack and add a ‘mates’ caveat if he wanted. But he didn’t. That would be a stupid lie, and he was completely done with diversionary tactics.

“Yeah,” he said firmly. “I am. Is that all right?”

She smiled, raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head a little in disbelief.

“It’s fine. A bit of a surprise, but yeah, fine,” she said.

Later that day, having had a shower and smartened himself up, Strike made his way to meet Robin. She’d gone home to get a change of clothes after running surveillance had ended in an unfortunately timed incident with a puddle and passing white van. As Strike waited in The Tottenham, sat down with half a pint already consumed, he thought again about how he had managed to get here. He didn’t really understand how he’d come to be in possession of the strange device that had enabled his journey through painful memories, and he wondered if he ever would. He thought of all the twists of fate that never happened now, compressed down into nothing by the reality of the choices that were made back then, and indeed, by his choices to leave history as it was. He downed the rest of his pint and as he put the empty glass down, he smiled in realization at why it was called a ‘torque compressor’ - because that was exactly what it did, it compressed all the possible twists, allowing you to see what was possible. Insofar as such outlandish ideas made sense, there was logic to it, but he was quite certain he had no appetite to use it again. From this point forward, he was determined to make better choices the first time round.

He looked up to see Robin enter, and look around for him. She was wearing a blue wrap dress under her jacket. The minute she spotted him, her face lit up, and he felt a pleasant hum of excitement in his chest. They weren’t ready those years before. Things were different now.

“Hey,” she said, coming and sitting opposite him.

“You look nice. You think you’re going to be able to save that cream jumper from the puddle grime?” Strike asked.

“I’ve put it in soak. The coat took most of the splash!” She chuckled.

“Good. It’s one of my favourites,” he replied.

Robin looked at him with keen curiosity.

“Can I ask what’s going on?” She said suddenly. “I’m not complaining, and I’m not really sure what I said last night to make you act like this, but you seem… I don’t know… not different, but maybe, I don’t know.”

She was shaking her head, seemingly unable to find the right way to express her confusion. He felt half a grin rise on his lips. Now or never, and that really did mean something to him now.

“You said a lot of things last night, and you won’t remember any of them because none of them happened now, but that is absolutely fine. I said some things too, and you won’t remember them either, but that doesn’t matter because I’m going to say them again now,” he said, aware he wasn’t actually diminishing her confusion, but not really knowing how he could say any of this without at least obliquely talking about how he had come to where he was this evening. He was never going to be a seasoned time traveller: perhaps there were ways to do this more skillfully, but he’d realized that it wasn’t really important to do things perfectly. It was important to be honest, and say things imperfectly rather than not at all.

“Cards on the table, Robin. I’ve liked you for a long time. I think I love you, actually. And what happened last night helped me to see that, as much as I might think I’d have done things differently if I had my time again, what matters is doing things right from this point on, and I think I can do that. I still have no idea who the kid was who gave me the damn torque thing, and I don’t know as I ever will, but that doesn’t matter either, because the point is that what I learned last night changed everything for me and now I understand that I have to take opportunities when I have them. I can’t promise to take away all the bad things, Robin, and I can’t even promise I won’t make any more cock-ups, but I really want to try and make some better memories with you,” he said, reaching for her hand as she sat in front of him, her mouth fallen slightly open as it had in that other timeline when he had asked her to run away with him.

“Ok,” she whispered, just as she had then, but unlike that timeline, she then grinned as she squeezed his hand, “but you are definitely giving me a translation of some of that later. I think I got the gist, though.”

“Right then, Ellacott,” Strike replied, smiling as he stood up and pulled her with him. She looked at him, delight sparkling in her eyes as he bent his head to kiss her. When he drew his head back, she looked a little dizzy. “No good?” he grinned, “I can always have another go.”

“So I just leave it with him? Isn’t he going to recognize me?” Ethan said, looking at the small brown pebble in his hand.

“No, he was always very clear that he had no idea who you were,” Robin explained, ruffling his sandy hair.

“And what’s he going to do with it? Travel back in time too?” The boy asked as Robin continued to unpack the box on the table.

“I think so, yes. He told me some of it, that it showed him all the possibilities so he could choose the right one. I actually thought he was just being poetic until I found this in a little box with a note in it explaining how to use the buttons when we were clearing out for the move here. Oh, you must tell him he needs to put it in a box when he’d decided to stick with one, and not use it again, so that it can get back to him,” she said, checking the cardboard crate was empty.

“Why does he need to see the possibilities?” Ethan asked, picking the crate up and putting it in the pile by the door.

“He told me it was the best thing that ever happened to him other than meeting me. He said it made him realize that as much as he might have done things differently if he had his time again, what matters was doing things right from this point on,” Robin said, looking at her watch. “So, you know the date and place you’re thinking about when you touch it?”

“What if I get it wrong, though? Wouldn’t it be better if you did it?” Ethan said nervously as they walked into the kitchen.

“You won’t. We know you did it because it all worked, and we know it wasn’t me who gave it to him. Trust me, ok? You should do it now, before we go and visit him, so we can tell him we’ve done it,” Robin put her hands on her son’s big shoulders.

“He’s going to be ok, isn’t he mum?” Ethan asked.

“He’ll be fine. He’s in the best place. See you in a minute,” Robin assured him.

Ethan pulled on his denim jacket and when he touched the pebble, he seemed to dissolve like a watercolour in front of Robin. She smiled, pulling the folded instruction note out of her pocket containing Strike’s scrawl explaining the unlikely details of the time travel gadget. She read the short statement on the front of it and pulled her own coat on, ready to visit her partner of many years, the man with whom she had built a life, shared a business, a home and a son, and whom she now knew she might soon have to say goodbye to. She hoped not. She hoped they still had time. She looked forward to telling him the loop was closed. She had learned, just as he had, that what mattered was doing the right things imperfectly and not leaving things unsaid. As she saw the faint image of their son re-materializing, she pressed a kiss to the note in her hand.

“All done?” She asked Ethan.

“All done,” he confirmed, and looked at what she had in her hand. “Is that the note, then?”

“Yes,” Robin said, picking up the car keys. “I’ve only just realized why he wrote this line on the front, because that’s what changed everything,” she laughed. “It says ‘Learning to Torque.’”