Chapter Text
“Robin, I’m not playing Twenty Questions with you,” Strike chuckled, shaking his head.
“And why the hell not? We’ve got nothing better to do to kill a few hours. It seems pretty obvious that Miss Shakespeare’s rehearsal won’t be done any time soon,” she shot back. They were sat in Strike’s BMW across from the Old Vic near Waterloo. It was nearly 8pm. She was right—Shakespeare’s rehearsals never ended before 10.
“Fair point. But hey, if Mr Shakespeare is going to pay enough to make sure his wife isn’t sleeping with The Director…” he shrugged, stealing a glance at her across the car. Even in her slouchy jumper and leggings, she looked incredible. Hell, especially those leggings, he admitted sheepishly to himself. He had to look away when she was had gotten out at the petrol station to avoid a hard on.
Does she know the anguish she causes me?. Surely she had to know how good she her arse looked in the leggings. He couldn’t help but wonder if she picked them on purpose, knowing she’d see him today. Things between them lately had seemed especially charged.
Her voice snapped him back to reality. “Exactly, Strike! What have we got to lose?”
God, he loved it when she called him Strike. Sure, many people in his life referred to him by his surname, but somehow her voice made it sound personal, intimate even.
“That is,” she continued with a playful smirk, “unless you’ve got secrets to hide.”
He blushed involuntarily. Of course he had secrets to bloody hide! She was constantly on his mind. But she wasn’t to know that.
“Fine, have it your way, Ellacott. But I get to go first.” He grinned, ripping open a pack of biscuits Robin had put in the back seat. He tried not to groan when he saw they were low sugar.
“Ugh alright then. Do your worst.” She rolled her eyes and snatched a biscuit from his pack even as he pretended to hold them out of reach.
“But,” she paused, reconsidering, “whatever question you ask, you have to answer it yourself, too.”
He started to protest, but she cut him off. “It’s only fair, and you know it. Hey, don’t eat all the biscuits!”
“I’ll give you an easy one: what’s your favourite food? And yes, I know I should know this by now, but I don’t, okay?” He laughed, eating another biscuit.
Robin noticed a few crumbs catching in his stubble, and she smiled to herself before answering.
“Pasta. There’s nothing better than a bowl full of carbs at the end of a long day,” she said wistfully, stealing another glance at the crumbs that remained.
“What? Robs, I’ve never seen you eat pasta,” he said in genuine surprise.
He called me ‘Robs,’ she thought to herself, trying to hide her cheeks that were surely betraying her pleasure. There was something affectionate and sweet about it.
“Well, that’s because we’re always having curry, or Chinese.”
“I thought you liked curry and Chinese,” he said with mock indignation, wiping the crumbs from his beard.
Now she knew her face was blushing. She knew where this answer would lead, and yet, she felt the words starting to tumble out of her mouth anyway.
“Of course I do. But…they’re your favourites, Strike.”
“…So when you offer to pick up a curry, it’s because…” he said, his mind already racing. Was this some sort of sign that she cared for him as more than a best friend? Surely that was too selfless and thoughtful for mere friendship.
“Because you like curry. I mean, I do too, of course, and Curry Palace does a fantastic Josh Rogan, and curry is good leftovers—not that you ever really allow leftovers…” Shit, I’m rambling. Stop rambling Robin, stop it! She shook her head, trying to clear her own thoughts. She knew she should stop, but was afraid if she did, she’d instead spit out the truth: she got him his favourite foods because she loved him, and seeing him happy made her much happier than any bowl of pasta.
“Oh.” He blushed. “That’s bloody kind of you. I s’pose I owe you a bowl of pasta sometime, then. I make a mean fettuccine,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.
“Wait, do you cook, Strike?” She said in disbelief. In their 5 plus years of friendship, she’d never seen him cook beyond the microwave. Most of the time, it was a takeaway.
“Does that count as your question, Ellacott?” He countered, reaching for another biscuit. He had to admit, low sugar or not, they were pretty good.
“No, it doesn’t!!” she blustered, then seeing his mocking “rules are rules” look, conceded. “Fine. Yes, that’s my question. Do you, Cormoran Blue Strike, cook? In a kitchen. With pots. Not a microwave.” She laughed at her own interrogatory tone and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
He laughed sheepishly at the use of his full Christian name. “Blimey, Ellacott, you didn’t have to use my middle name.” He paused, taking a bite. “But as a matter of fact, I do. —Not often, of course!,” he interjected in response to her dubious look. “But yeah, I know my way around a kitchen. I even use pots to make said fettuccine.”
He’s teasing me. He’s flirting with me. He’s flirting with me? Robin’s brain was on overdrive, trying to simultaneously banter with her partner and process any subliminal meanings.
“Well,” she said, reaching for a drink of water to buy some time, “I’ll believe it when I see it. Your turn.”
“No no, you’ve got to answer the question, per your own rule,” he said with a cheeky smile.
“Yes, I cook. Obviously it’s rare, but I always helped my mum make Sunday roast. And now and then, I make a stir fry or something. Actually, my Full English isn’t bad.”
He could just imagine waking up in Robin’s bed to the smell of a Full English. He imagined coming up behind her and kissing her neck as she tended to the eggs, feeling her body through her thin dressing gown. Stop it! He scolded himself. Stop imagining a nearly-naked Robin. She’s right here! She may hear you.
Lately Strike has entertained the implausible thought that Robin could hear these thoughts and they swam across his brain. There had always been a hint of something beyond friendship between them, but it seemed to grow more potent and undeniable by the day.
He noticed her looking at him, and realised with a jolt that it was his turn to ask another question. He decided to keep it in neutral territory for now at least. Depending on how the game was going, he could invite her back to the office for some whiskey. Then, maybe, he would ask her the real questions on his mind.