Chapter Text
"I’ve ordered a curry. Won’t be long,” He watched Robin clean her nose in his mirror, feeling the strangeness of seeing her here, in his apartment. “How’s your nose?” He handed her the cold pack, grateful to be doing something helpful to help atone for his mistake.
“It’s not broken,” She applied the cold pack carefully and sat down.
“How is it now?” he prodded anxiously.
“Colder. It’s alright, you can stop fussing. It was an accident,” she sniffed.
"Yeah, I know. But you’re only trying–”
“Why’d you let him get under your skin like that? You knew it was a set-up,” Robin cut him off, chiding, her voice muffled under the cold pack.
Strike sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He supposed her owed her honesty, given the situation. “My father’s kids have been on about me meeting Rokeby He’s been calling too,” He paused, shaking his head slightly. “I thought I was. . .” he trailed off, hoping to lead the conversation anywhere else.
“What?”
“I don’t know,” No need to delve into all that. He took a drink, pushing away memories better left alone.
Robin removed her ice pack, folding it and placing it on the table’s edge. Between her aching nose and the whiskey, she felt emboldened enough to ask, “You’ve never met him have you?”
“No, I have,” he corrected, before continuing on to her surprise. “My mum took took me to see him once when I was a kid. We went down to the recording studio. I asked her to put me in my best trousers,” He said, his gaze far away, wondering why he was telling her this.
She smiled, trying to picture Strike as a child and failing completely. “How old were you?”
“Seven,”
“And did he like your trousers?”
“We weren’t allowed in. I was saying to the bloke at the door, ‘You don’t understand, he’s my dad, he’s asked to see me.’ In the end, the manager came down and took us into a side room, and he was having a go at mum saying, ‘If this is about money, you have to go to lawyers, not pull a stunt like this.’” At some point I realized he hadn’t invited us. It was all Mum,”
“Oh, God,”
Strike downed the rest of his whiskey. “Rokeby did come down, though. Probably hear the shouting. I had snot all over my face cos I’d been crying. I was wiping it off. I didn’t want to look like a whiny kid. I didn’t want to ruin it,” he said, heavy with sarcasm. “Rokeby and Mum were shouting at each other, and, eventually, he did look at me. And he said, ‘This was a fucking accident.’ he mimicked Rokeby.
I thought he meant the situation. Even after we left, I thought he was going to find me and say, ‘Sorry about that. I’m having a bad day. I didn’t mean it.’” Strike didn’t mention how long he’d let himself believe Rokeby would apologize. He shrugged, shaking off the memories, and continued, “I mean, I was wearing my best trousers. And that’s why I’ve never worn trousers again,” he finished, attempting humor with a halfhearted smile.
“That is a terrible thing to say to a kid.” Robin replied seriously, her eyebrows knitting together.
“Cocaine,” Strike said by way of explanation. “To be fair to him, he wasn’t wrong,”
A beat passed. “Well, it doesn’t matter where you come from,” she reached out as if to touch his hand, but only tapped the table. “You’re a good man, and that’s all that matters,”
Strike stared down at the nearly empty glass, and her hand so near. “And that’s coming from someone whose nose you nearly broke,” Robin continued, feeling as if she should lighten the mood, though a part of her didn’t want to do so.
He smiled at her joke, wanting to give in and discuss something happier, something more cheerful. But the guards he’d placed over his past had been lifted, and it had been a relief to unburden himself. “I thought I was. . .free of him,” he looked away, studying the floor. “It’s obviously not true. . . Sorry. More booze?” He stood, walking over to the cabinet.
“Yes. Please.” Robin drained her glass, and looked around the flat. She’d only been up a handful of times before–usually to wake Strike when he’d overslept, or to retrieve something he’d forgotten. Never for this long. Her gaze drifted naturally to the bed behind her–a double, neatly made, with mismatched pillow shams. Like a ghost, Charlotte drifted into her mind–but no, she’d never been here, never drank at this table, never slept in that bed, never—the briefest flash of herself entangled with Strike on that very bed passed through her mind. Startled by her mind’s betrayal, she wrenched her gaze away only to find that Strike had noticed her staring. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she turned her attention away.
Strike brought the whiskey back to the table, pouring them both full measures. Robin touched her nose tentatively, trying to cover her embarrassment.
“I’m s’pposed to be going home tomorrow,” she said ironically, removing the ice pack from her swollen nose. “How do I look?” she tilted her head slightly, as if modeling her injury. “Be honest,” A part of her wanted him to crack a joke, to treat her as if he would Barclay or any other colleague whose nose got in the way of his arm. But another, much larger part of her wanted the truth. Honesty or we’re screwed.
Strike simply stared at her, his face unreadable. Her cheeks began to warm anew–she shouldn’t be asking her business partner to comment on her–
“Beautiful,” he replied, almost a sigh, never breaking eye contact. Robin froze, her brain slow to comprehend through the aching of her face ceding eventually to the tumultuous and warring emotions of elation, shock, and disbelief. The moment seemed to stretch on and on, the attic room narrowing down to just the two of them, with only the rickety table and whiskey glasses keeping them apart.
A loud knocking sounded from downstairs. She started, annoyed at the disturbance. “Who’s that?”
“Rohan,” Strike replied in a low voice, “With the curry,”
“How’d he get in the main door?” She felt a ridiculous need to return to normal conversation, to steer his need to make amends back into the realm of professionalism. Inexplicably, her thoughts flickered back to his bed, only mere feet away.
“I had a key cut for him. Save me going up and down the stairs,” The knock resounded again, even more insistent. They stood simultaneously, pausing as if each waiting for the other to make the first move, but neither wanting to.
“I’ll go–” Strike said reluctantly, making as if to move around her.
“No, you know where the plates are,”Robin said, cutting him off and backing toward the door. “Ill . . .” Robin turned around with the intention of finishing her sentence, but froze when she realized Strike’s proximity.
He stared down at her, his chest aching with feeling and the strong desire of which he so often and firmly denied existence. He wanted–but no, the rational voice in his brain insisted. Hard stop.
But her ring was gone, another voice insisted, much more persuasive, and she was here, in his room–beautiful and utterly desirable. Unable to help himself, he brushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear, the gesture both satisfying and yet, not enough. Slowly, he cupped his hand on her face, brushing her cheek with his thumb, careful to avoid the bruising forming around her nose. God, but she was beautiful, even with the bruises. Fresh contrition washed through him. He wanted to offer her more than ice packs and whiskey and apologies–
Robin looked up, her eyes burning with an intensity he only saw when she spoke of injustice. At that, something–the final knot of the bindings usually kept so secure, perhaps–loosened, and he deliberately dipped his head towards her, resolving that if she didn’t want to, he’d blame it on the whiskey, on his guilt, on his stupidity, on the fact that he really was, after all, a dickhead–
Her lips met his. They kissed tentatively, each afraid the other would end the contact. Of their own volition, Robin felt her arms lift and wrap around Strike, pulling him closer, as though they’d done so for years. His bulk was comfortingly familiar, and she sighed. She let one hand run along the nape of his neck, running her fingers through the curls lightly.
Christ, thought Strike. Why did something so simple feel so good? His thoughts flickered dimly to her wedding, the staircase, and the question that remained unspoken. Run away with me, and fuck the consequences.
Emboldened, he deepened the kiss, moving his own hands down her sides to rest at her hips. She responded in kind, pressing into him, only wanting to feel more of him, to luxuriate in the way he felt against her–
Strike groaned, and something in the sound made her pause, leaning back to see him properly. Rationality kept trying to push its way through the haze of desire–this was insane, absolutely insane–he’s your work partner, your friend–he doesn’t want what you want–
“What about Rohan?” Robin said suddenly, intending it to be an offered out, a way for them to–somewhat–gracefully back out of what would surely be something she–they’d–regret in the morning? Strike open his eyes, his gaze dark and uncomprehending. “With the curry?”
His lips twitched. “Fuck the curry,”