Chapter Text
Robin drifts awake, warm and so comfortable. Her bed is a cosy nest, and as she slowly comes to, she becomes aware of two things.
The first is a rather nasty headache pulling at her temples, making her feel a little sick.
The second is the warm bulk behind her, pressed against her, a heavy arm around her, anchoring her close. The breath on the back of her neck, slow and even. The familiar smell of her work partner.
Robin freezes, tension stiffening her frame. She wills herself to relax, trying not to move, her eyes flitting about the room. The door through to her living area is open, and she can see Strike’s huge coat slung across the back of her little sofa. She can see his prosthetic leg leaning against her bedroom wall, his trousers half-folded next to it. His burgundy jumper is slung on the chair in the corner with her trousers and top from last night.
She searches her memory. Did she just sleep with her boss? She lies very still, trying to remember. Well, obviously she slept with him, because here he still is, spooning her in her bed, wrapped around her. But did they—? She can’t remember it, and she’s pretty sure she would if they had.
She remembers the kiss in the hallway, so thorough and passionate it took her breath away. She remembers him telling her he loved her, grinning cheekily, and she wonders if he was serious. She remembers offering him a whisky, and them sitting on the sofa, sipping their drinks and kissing until she felt quite giddy and she couldn’t tell whether it was from a large whisky on top of three glasses of wine, or from his gentle, passionate kisses.
She remembers— She closes her eyes again in embarrassment as she remembers him saying he should go home, and her clinging to him and begging him to stay, and him suggesting gently that they’d both had a lot to drink and perhaps he should give her some space to think. She remembers giggling and threatening to lock him in, and him asking her in amusement if he was a hostage now, and the look she’d given him that had made his eyes darken.
After that it’s all a little hazy, but she remembers insisting that he go to bed with her “jus’ to snuggle” and the soft look in his eyes as he’d followed her willingly as she dragged him into her bedroom. And after that she can’t remember much else. A little kissing. She must have fallen asleep almost immediately. She’s a little afraid, now she thinks about it and tries to pin down the elusive detail, that she fell asleep mid-snog.
And now here she is, more than a little hungover, but warmer and more comfortable than she thinks she’s ever been in her life. She takes stock of their physical closeness. She’d put her loose stretchy cotton nightgown on at some point and managed to remove her bra at least, and the thickly haired arm wrapped securely around her she can see is encased in a T-shirt sleeve at the top. She assumes he’s wearing his boxers too still.
Thinking about his underwear, she finds herself wondering if he’s— She blushes at the thought, but, well, he’s a guy and it’s the morning, and... They’re not quite slotted together closely enough for her to be able to tell, the dip of the duvet between them forming a cushioned barrier.
Now what, Ellacott? She asks herself. She needs a wee, and she really wants to brush her teeth so that her mouth feels fresher, but he’s not snoring the snores of the deeply asleep - she’s heard the sound of a properly asleep Strike even from the office below his bedroom - so maybe if she moves she’ll wake him.
Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to stay. She didn’t really give him much choice. She thinks of the beautiful women that have come and gone in his life since she’s known him, and is willing to bet none of them begged him to sleep with them and then didn’t actually have sex with him but just fell asleep. What must he have thought? She knows she doesn’t compare well to the elegant and no doubt experienced beauties he seems to attract.
She’s still trying to decide what to do when his arm tightens around her briefly and he speaks, his voice low and fond against the back of her shoulder.
“Are you going to pretend to be asleep all morning?” She can hear the note of amusement. “Only if you’re not, shall I go and make us some tea?”
Robin knows her cheeks are red, but she also knows she’s been rumbled and she has to admit to being awake or look like a fool. She rolls a little, looking back over her shoulder at him, and the sight of him - bed-soft skin, sleep-hooded eyes, hair even more riotous than usual - takes her breath away.
“I’m awake,” she murmurs and, because he can see her pink cheeks, she adds, “I’m just embarrassed.”
He grins and kisses her cheek. “You’ve got no need to be.”
“I kind of forced you to stay.”
“Robin. I was not unwilling. I just didn’t want you to do something you might regret.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to go?”
Her colour deepens. “No.”
His smile is warm with fondness and a hint of relief. “Shall I make that tea, then?”
Robin nods shyly. “I’ll just pop to the bathroom.”
She scrambles up out of the duvet, and he’s sitting up too as she climbs out of the bed, her head lurching a little at the movement.
“Pass me my leg?” he asks, matter-of-fact, as though this is something they do all the time as opposed to a new and startling development in their relationship. Robin hands it to him and scurries to the bathroom.
By the time she has emptied her bladder, brushed her teeth and swilled mouthwash for good measure, washed last night’s ruined makeup from her face and cupped a few mouthfuls of water to swallow two paracetamol from her bathroom cabinet, Strike has boiled the kettle and is pouring hot water into mugs. He looks for all the world like he does in the office, poking the tea bags with a spoon, except that he’s only wearing a T-shirt and his loose cotton boxers, his arms and legs coated with thick, dark hair, his naked foot a contrast with the prosthetic one that still has his shoe attached.
He looks round at her and grins, and for just a moment his eyes flick downwards. The nightdress barely covers her arse, and she knows he can see all of her legs, but she also knows he can see the stupid jaunty message printed on the front. It had been a present from her parents at Christmas, hardly chosen for its sexiness, but it’s comfy. Robin blushes again.
“Swap?” he says, holding out the teaspoon, and she takes it and he steps around her to the bathroom. His hand ghosts across her hip, a gentle touch that fills her with hope suddenly. Maybe he’s not regretting staying.
He goes into the bathroom and closes the door, and Robin finishes assembling the tea (grinning at the cup of cold chamomile sat by the kettle) and picks up the mugs. She hesitates, and then carries them back to the bedroom.
When Strike returns, she’s sitting up in bed scrolling through her phone just for something to do, really, and she sets the phone aside as he sits down. He hesitates and looks at her, and she smiles and shuffles across and pats the empty space. Grinning, he removes his prosthesis again and sets it aside, and scrambles into bed with her.
It’s incongruous. He’s so big, and so masculine, and he’s her colleague, boss and friend. The idea of him in her bed should be all manner of ridiculous, and yet somehow it seems so right. It helps that he doesn’t give her time to overthink things, leaning forward to slide a hand into her hair and press his lips to hers. It’s a chaste, closed-mouthed kiss, but lingering and full of confident promise, making her insides melt.
He draws back just a little. “Okay?” his voice is husky.
Robin nods shyly. “Yeah.”
“No regrets?”
She flushes again, cursing her colouring that gives away every emotion. “We didn’t do anything to regret.”
He grins wickedly. “That can be remedied,” he replies cheekily, making her turn even redder. Then he hastily adds, “but not if you’re going to regret it, obviously.”
Robin giggles and leans in to him, burying her face in his shoulder, hiding from his intense eyes. He smells glorious, warm and musky. “I wouldn’t regret it,” she mutters against his collarbone. “I won’t regret it, I mean.”
He kisses the side of her head and then gently draws away so he can meet her gaze again, and the look in his eyes makes her heart flutter.
“Good,” he says gently. “Because I know last night was—” He hesitates, reaching for words.
“Last night I was an idiot.” Robin groans, still mortified at the thought.
“Last night was perfect,” he corrects her. He touches her cheek, a gentle caress. “Something had to happen to break the deadlock, and I was too scared to say anything.”
She looks at him curiously, properly meeting his gaze for what feels like the first time on this weird, wonderful morning. “Scared? Why?”
He shrugs. “Because how I’ve been feeling is, by any measure of employer-employee relationships, utterly inappropriate. You have a right to do your job without—” He breaks off again and looks at her helplessly.
“Without what?”
“Without— Well, you know. If I’d told you I love you and you didn’t feel the same, where would that have left us? We couldn’t have carried on working together like we do. At the very least it would have been hideously awkward.”
Robin swallows hard. “You meant it, then?”
He looks at her, and she sees confusion and then comprehension flit across his face. He takes her hand in his.
“Robin, of course I meant it. Why would I say it if I didn’t?”
Robin shrugs. “I’m not fishing, honestly. I’m just not...” It’s her turn to trail off.
“Not what?” He’s taken both her hands in his now, drawing her closer.
“I’m not Lorelei, or Elin, or—” She can’t bring herself to say the name that hangs, unspoken, between them.
Strike gazes back at her. “No,” he agrees. “But I think I might be done with dysfunctional relationships. With either trying to fix people or holding them at arm’s length. I think I’d like something proper, mature, settled. With you.”
Tears prickle in Robin’s eyes. “I’d like that too.”
“And besides,” he says with an air of wanting to get everything out in the open. “I’m not Matthew.”
Robin snorts. “Do you think I’d be giving you the time of day if you were?”
His gaze is level. He won’t be distracted. “I mean, you loved him once.”
Robin nods, understanding. “Much, much longer ago than I ever admitted to myself,” she replies. “I loved him in our teens, when we had so much in common and he was my first real boyfriend. We were growing apart as soon as we went to separate universities, but then I needed someone safe...”
Strike nods. He understands.
Robin looks down at their hands, twines her fingers with his. Might as well say everything that’s on her mind, while they’re doing this. “I’ve never slept with anyone else.”
“Really?” His surprise is gratifying. “What about that guy Ilsa set you up with?”
Robin shrugs. “A few dates, no spark,” she replies. She peeks up at him, cheeky. “Why, did you mind?”
It’s Strike’s turn to flush, to avoid her gaze. “A bit. Okay, a lot.” But she can see he’s delighted at her admission, that there had been nothing between her and Luke other than a few chaste kisses that had done absolutely nothing for her.
“I think I was hoping you and I would—” She hesitates, and he grins at her.
“Me too.”
Robin pauses, and then says in a rush, before she can worry about it, “I love you.”
His smile is soft, his expression dazed, as though she has said something miraculous. “I love you too.”
“So—”
“So.”
“What now?”
Strike grins at her wickedly, making her blush again. “I can think of a few things.”
“I meant—”
“I know. I’m only teasing. I guess now we’re partners in all senses of the word? And we’ll work it out as we go along, I suppose.”
Robin nods.
Strike sits back a little and picks up his tea, so Robin does likewise. They sip and gaze at one another, and she knows she’s grinning goofily, and he is too. Happiness fizzes in her stomach.
“How’s your head?” he asks her.
Robin thinks. “Not too bad, actually. I took a couple of paracetamol,” she admits.
He smiles at her. “I thought you might have,” he says. “You look less peaky than you did first thing.”
Robin puts her mug down again, only half drunk. “I feel fine,” she replies, and looks at him meaningfully. “Quite fine.”
His eyes darken, and he turns to set his tea aside too.
“In that case—” he murmurs, turning back to her, and he pulls her into his arms and kisses her, thoroughly this time, leaving no doubt as to his intent.