Work Text:
Robin glanced at her watch and sighed. Time to stop. She hadn’t realised she’d worked so late. It was seven o’clock already. Strike had gone out first thing that morning to check out the CCTV cameras at the McCaffery place and then tail Redhead, and hadn’t come back. She assumed he’d gone straight out for dinner and a pint.
She yawned and stretched, and packed up her things. She was just reaching to lift her coat down from the coat rack when she heard a clanging on the metal stairs and a muffled curse. She opened the outer office door and stepped out into the hall.
Strike was pulling himself up the stairs slowly and laboriously. “Cormoran?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
He looked up and didn’t seem pleased to see her. His face was grey and he was sweating. He looked pained. She moved towards him without thinking, ignoring his scowl.
“What are you still doing here?” he demanded, more sharply than he’d intended. She flinched slightly at his tone but answered smoothly.
“Lost track of time. I was just about to leave. Let me help you,” she said, concerned, reaching for his arm.
“I’m fine,” he snapped, pulling away from her. He never could bear to look weak in front of her. He was tired and hungry and in a lot of pain, and he just wanted to be left alone to go and take painkillers and smoke in private.
Robin put her head on one side, considering. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, firmly. “I’m assuming from that mood that you haven’t eaten. You’re going to get yourself up to your flat - it’s only one more flight - and take paracetamol and sort your leg out. I’m going to fetch a takeaway and some beers.” She went back into the office and grabbed her bag and coat, coming out and locking up as he pulled himself up to the small landing and rested, out of breath and paler, if anything. He looked awful.
He glared at her, knowing deep down that he was being an arse, but wanting to be left to nurse his leg in private like a wounded bear. “Just go home, Robin,” he said.
“You’re seriously going to turn down dinner and beer just because you have to put up with me too?” she asked, grinning. “I’m doing it anyway, you know.”
He sighed, resigned, and turned away without saying anything to contemplate the final, painful ascent. Sensing his reluctance to start with her as witness, Robin set off down the stairs. “See you in a bit,” she called.
She was back in half an hour, armed with a bag of beers (and a bottle of wine in case he was amenable to her staying), a Chinese takeaway and more painkillers from the local Tesco. On impulse she’d bought a bag of ice, too. She knocked on Strike’s door, and heard a gruff “come in”.
He was seated at his kitchen table, smoking. She hoped he had removed his prosthesis, but she deliberately didn’t look. She put the food on the table, passed him a beer, and went to the kitchenette area. She opened the ice, poured half into a bowl and put it in the freezer compartment and wordlessly handed him the half full bag. He took it without quite meeting her eye. She found plates, forks, a bottle opener. Opened his beer, put his plate and food in front of him.
Then she grinned at him, disarming him. “Are you going to let me eat mine here or send me down to the office?” she asked, cheekily. He sighed, but she saw the ghost of a smile pass across his lips. He waved at the chair opposite, and then smiled for real when she produced the wine from the bag.
They dished out their food, and Robin poured some wine into a tumbler. She sat opposite him and they ate in silence. Eventually, when Robin judged that his mood might be a little better - his first beer and half his food gone - she started asking him about the McCaffery place. It was Strike’s case, but she’d worked with him on a few aspects of it and was well versed. They kept up with one another’s cases so that they could both step in on any case if need be.
Talking about work relaxed Strike, as always, and the food and beer were vastly improving his mood, as she’d known they would. He told her about the long, tiring day of walking, around the McCaffery place and then tailing Redhead, culminating in missing his footing in his tiredness whilst traversing the endless stupid roadworks on Denmark Street, and wrenching his knee. Robin was careful not to be too sympathetic, but she did produce the painkillers she had bought, and a pack of Benson & Hedges. He was ridiculously touched by that last gesture, knowing she’d done everything she could think of to prevent him having to go out again tonight.
Robin stacked the dishes in the sink, leaving the bottle opener at Strike’s elbow, and opened the window out over the street. “Don’t mind me,” she said, waving at his cigarettes, and he lit up gratefully. His knee was still throbbing, but with a full stomach, painkillers and a couple of beers, it was tolerable now, an angry ache rather then the white hot pain of earlier.
“Thank you for all this, Robin,” he said softly, and she flushed a little. “No problem.”
Strike shifted the bag of ice on his knee. It was almost all water now, and spilled a little. Robin wordlessly put out a hand and he passed it to her. She tipped the slush down the sink and refilled the bag from the freezer and passed it back, sat back down. He drew the other chair closer and rested his truncated leg on it, the end of his trouser leg dangling, balancing the ice on the swollen knee joint. She was touched, accepting his willingness to show her his vulnerability. She topped up her wine, and he smoked his cigarette.
“Can I do anything to help?” she asked presently, a little bolder now, and he grimaced. “I should look at it really, check I’ve not broken the skin,” he said. He stubbed out the cigarette and reached forward to roll his trouser leg up to expose the stump. Robin hadn’t directly seen it before, and it felt oddly intimate. He examined what he could see of it, and then glanced up at her. “Does it look okay underneath?” he asked.
Robin drew her chair closer and peered. “No broken skin that I can see,” she said. “But your knee looks ever so swollen.”
He nodded, grimly. “I think it’s the knee, not the stump, that I’ve hurt,” he said, feeling around the joint. “Feels hot even with the ice.” He took a swig of his beer and sat back with a sigh.
Without thinking, Robin reached out to touch the swollen knee through his trousers. She ran gentle fingers over it, clinical, not noticing how very still he was suddenly. She nodded. “It is hot,” she said. “Must be sore.” She glanced up at him when he didn’t say anything, and saw that his eyes were closed. Her stomach lurched suddenly as she realised how very close she was sat now, her hand on his knee. She dropped her eyes back to his leg, and watched, mesmerised, as her hand slid up from his knee, checking how far the swelling went. He drew a shuddering breath as her hand moved to his lower thigh, and she slid her chair a little closer so she could gently cup the knee with both hands. Her fingers gently explored and massaged, and she could have sworn he gave a very faint groan. His eyes were still closed. Heat swirled in her groin. How was she managing to find this arousing? But her instincts told her he was too.
“Am I hurting you?” she whispered, stroking gently all around the swollen joint.
“No,” he murmured hoarsely. “It’s... helping.” His eyes drifted open and met hers, and her breath caught at the heat in his gaze. Bolder, she slid her chair closer still. Her hands cupped his knee again, and she allowed her slender fingers to find the inside of his thigh briefly. His breath hitched sharply.
“Is that helping too?” she whispered, trembling.
“Yeah, that helps a lot...” His voice was husky now. She looked up at him again. His eyes held hers for a few moments, and then he leaned forward and kissed her.
Robin hadn’t known a kiss could be so erotic, fuelled by what had gone before. His lips were gentle against hers, but desire jumped within her, sharp and urgent immediately, and she gasped against his mouth. Her hands slid involuntarily up his leg a little further and he moaned softly against her, his hands cupping her face and sliding into her hair, his tongue seeking hers, brushing gently over it. She pressed nearer, and found her hands were suddenly on his chest, holding the front of his shirt to pull him closer, the kiss deepening. She kissed him fiercely for a minute, and then suddenly pulled back, a little overwhelmed by the storm inside of her. She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard.
Strike seemed to know what she was feeling. He stroked her hair softly, and then slowly sat back and picked up his forgotten beer. She met his gaze shyly and he smiled at her, gentle and fond. “I could get used to you looking after me,” he said, and she smiled back.