Work Text:
Strike grinned at his phone as he prepared to leave his flat. He knew he was going to see Robin in a few hours, he knew he had just seen her earlier that day, but the knowledge that he was now free to text her, for no reason, without awkwardness or embarrassment, just because he missed her, was a pleasant sensation. His light mood lasted for his entire stroll through Covent Garden and until he reached the Wellington Pub, where he was due to spend an hour or so with Dave Polworth while Penny and the girls had a rest after the Lion King.
“The fuck is wrong with your face, Diddy?” was the first thing that Dave Polworth said to Strike.
Strike shrugged and smiled even more widely at his friend. “Can’t I be happy to see an old friend in London?” he asked, before heading to the bar to order a pint. He returned to the table and the two friends clinked glasses.
“How was the kid play?” Strike asked.
“It wasn’t a play. It was an extravaganza,” said Polworth. “I won’t lie. I didn’t hate it. Girls liked it.”
“What else have you been doing?”
“Walking too fucking much and spending money on crap,” said Polworth. “You? How’s the business?”
“Booming. Hired another subcontractor this week. That makes six of us, including myself and Robin.”
They talked for a while about the logistics of the business, Polworth equal parts intrigued and let down by the descriptions of day-to-day operations.
“So two of your staff are girls,” mused Polworth. “Suppose that’s useful for sneaking around in certain places.”
“It’s useful because they’re damned good detectives,” said Strike. “And Robin’s my partner, not my staff.”
“Still just your business partner?” Polworth gave Strike a knowing look.
Strike felt himself smile. “No,” he said, after a pause. “Not since last weekend.”
Polworth banged his fist on the table so hard that Strike had to stop his pint from toppling over. “I knew it,” he said. “Why else would you have such an idiotic look on your face?”
“Bollocks,” said Strike. “You knew nothing and I look like I always do.”
“So?” Polworth raised his eyebrows. “How was it?”
“It?”
“Don’t be dense.”
“Well,” said Strike, “It’s just that ‘it’ implies something that happened one time, or that is over, and ‘it’ was certainly not one time and I’m hoping ‘it’ will continue for the long-term.”
Polworth waved a hand dismissively. “What happened? Working late? Alone in the office - “
“Took her out for her birthday,” said Strike.
“Good move,” said Polworth. “Did you bring a gift? Chocolates? Flowers?” Polworth took a swig of his beer. “Penny likes weird fancy shit like salted caramels.”
Strike snorted. He remembered, for a moment, the butterflies in his stomach - his uncharacteristic nervousness, as he had waited last Thursday morning for a message from Robin. The donkey balloon had been a gamble. He’d hoped she would understand, and that she would appreciate the memory. As the minutes had passed, slowly, with no word from Robin, Strike had been unable to wait. He’d had to know. He had texted her, asking for her to meet him that evening, pretending it was work-related, and she had texted back “Ok” with no acknowledgment of his gift. He had wondered if Max failed him. And then, an agonizing fifteen minutes later, he’d received a message from Robin.
“Thanks for the balloon donkey. Perfect timing. My old one’s nearly deflated.”
The relief he had felt upon receiving the text was unprecedented. He had closed his eyes and savored the moment. Then, after some thought, he’d responded with “Great. I was worried it was so obvious, everybody would’ve got you one. See you at 5.”
“Well,” said Polworth. “You’ve got that look on your face again. What was it?”
He decided not to mention the donkey balloon. “Perfume,” said Strike.
It was Polworth’s turn to snort. “Fuck off.”
“It’s true,” said Strike. “I took her to the shop and let her pick it out.”
“Smart,” said Polworth, tapping his forehead with his index finger. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”
“Got a hug and a kiss on the cheek for that,” said Strike, who was, to his surprise, enjoying retelling this story to his friend. “Then I took her to the Ritz for champagne.”
“Guess you’re treating us to dinner, then,” said Polworth. “Business really must be booming. How much did that set you back?”
As far as Strike was concerned, the entire evening had been worth every penny. When he had helped Robin remove her raincoat at the Ritz, he’d been momentarily struck speechless. She had been wearing the blue dress he had liked so much months earlier. He’d inhaled so sharply that Robin had turned her head to look at him, a gesture that only entranced him further. He had finally blurted out “You look beautiful,” and although it had been the honest truth, he had mentally chastised himself for his lack of eloquence. In an attempt to salvage the situation, he had continued by remembering, aloud, the last time he had seen Robin wear that dress, thinking, in a convoluted way, that talking about work might diffuse the situation. But Robin had looked stunned that he had remembered something she had worn months earlier, and he had thought he had detected a blush as she’d informed him that it was old. Thankfully, the waiter had appeared with menus before Strike had been able to say anything else embarrassing; he was sure that something along the lines of “It’s not the dress, it’s you,” was on the tip of his tongue.
Strike chose not to share any of this with Dave Polworth. “It was worth it,” was all he said.
“Did you pony up for dinner at the Ritz as well?”
“No. We went for a curry.”
“That’s a bit of a let-down, after the Ritz.”
“It was her choice,” said Strike. “And it was a posh restaurant.”
“Well this is a bloody fascinating story, Diddy. What next? Take her ballroom dancing?”
Strike shrugged and lifted his pint to his lips. “I can stop any time. We can talk about football,” he said.
“At what point, in this evening,” said Polworth, “did you do anything other than eat or drink?”
Strike caught himself before he made a crude joke that would have pleased Polworth, but embarrassed Robin. He knew his friend was no romantic. And he did not particularly want toshare how thrilling the entire evening had been, from the moment he’d seen Robin, to the hug in front of the flowers at the entrance to Liberty. The kiss that Robin had placed on his cheek before they had started towards the Ritz was almost more vivid in his memory than any other touch they had shared that evening. Then she had reached out to comfort him, after noticing the mural on the wall at the Ritz, and her hand, cool and smooth, had remained on top of his, and she had not moved it as he’d turned his own so that their fingers entwined. Strike had risked a caress, rubbing his thumb across the top of her hand, and felt her fingers twitch, but not withdraw, and they had managed to carry on their conversation, and distracted though he was, Strike had managed to relax.
To Polworth, he simply asked, “So you don’t want to hear the bit where we went back to my flat for a nightcap?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Polworth, sounding almost relieved.
Midway through the bottle of champagne at the Ritz, Strike had begun to actively hope that the evening would end with a proper kiss. Although he had been the one to initiate the perfume and the drinks, he had allowed Robin to lead the way once the champagne bottle was empty. She had been the one to suggest they return to Denmark Street. She had been the one who wanted whisky.
The lighting in his small flat was hazy, and the ambiance was romantic by default as they sat at his small table and continued their easy conversation, tumblers of whisky in front of them. Robin had asked questions about his childhood - not invasive questions about his nomadic life with Leda, but rather, she prompted him to share tales of his times with Ted and Joan in Cornwall. She had asked to see a photograph, and Strike had been momentarily stunned, because it felt to him that surely Robin must have met Ted and Joan, that she was as much family to him as they were.
He had excused himself to his bedroom to dig out one of his small photograph albums and was sidetracked for a moment, flipping through it and reliving memories. He almost didn’t recognize the fit and confident version of himself that smiled at the camera. Eventually, he decided to bring out just a single photograph of Ted and Joan, as requested, and returned to the main room.
Robin had stood as he entered, so quickly that her chair shook on its legs. There was a determined look on her face, but he had seen tears in her eyes. Strike felt himself smile, partially to comfort her, although for what he did not know, and partly because the sight of her in his flat was like a dream come true. He hadn’t wanted her to leave, and the thought of ending the evening alone, in his flat, with nothing but an empty glass of whisky seemed too bleak to contemplate. He remembered thinking that he didn’t care anymore, about any of his excuses and reasons, and he had walked towards her. But Robin had made the first overt move, reaching up to caress his cheek with her fingers, and he had been certain, then, that she shared his feelings. Their lips met in a kiss that made Strike forget anything but the woman in front of him. And that had only been the beginning.
But he wouldn’t tell any of this to Dave Polworth. He coughed instead.
“We had some very fine whisky,” said Strike. “ We talked. We worked some things out.”
Polworth motioned for him to get on with the story. Strike took a long sip of his beer, and was working out the best way to continue while respecting Robin’s honor when the door to the pub opened and Penny Polworth entered with the Polworths’ two daughters in tow.
Strike stood to greet Penny, and offered to go to the bar to collect a pint for her and some milk for the girls. As he walked away, Polworth shouted after him, “I’m not done with you, Diddy!”
Strike laughed and headed to the bar, which was not crowded, to put in the drink orders and grab some menus. He had just picked up the two glasses of milk to carry back over to the table when the door to the pub opened again, and this time, Robin entered, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. She spotted Strike immediately and approached him. Forgetting momentarily that the Polworth family were all seated yards from where he stood, Strike willingly leaned in for a quick kiss, setting one of the glasses back on the bar and putting his arm around her.
“I did miss you,” said Robin, pulling away slightly. She picked up the glass from the bar with one hand, but kept the other around his waist. “Where is everyone?”
“Er - ” Strike looked over Robin’s shoulder at the Polworth family. On cue, Penny and the girls all broke into a round of applause, while Dave pumped a fist in the air. He found he didn’t mind at all - Robin was beautiful and she was smiling and he was allowed to kiss her whenever he wanted. Why not celebrate?
Robin gave the family a small wave, and then took the other glass out of Strike’s hand. “I’ll take these over and introduce myself,” she said. “Will you order a pint for me?”
Strike nodded, and then, both hands free, he waved to the bartender and ordered Robin’s drink. When he joined them all at the table, Robin was presenting Polworth’s daughters with matching glittery London tourist T-shirts. Polworth leaned in to Strike as he sat down next to Robin and, with a smile, said, “Mazenkov and Krupov, mate. Am I right?”