Archive of Our Own

The kitchen lies quiet in the early predawn stillness, the room coated in shades of dark blue and faint slashes of dull orange. Deep shadows are creeping over the counter like insidious thin fingers, swaying in tune with the ornaments dangling from thin strings in the window, the soft clack of the star in the largest window a steady sound in the otherwise near oppressive silence. It’s quieter now, Robin thinks, cradling her tea in both hands, than it was when she was a child, back when the heating would creak and groan and roar, a never ending concert of strange noises carried out in the old pipes running through the house.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen, there's the faint ticking of a clock.

Robin hasn't turned on the light, save for a string of Christmas lights that automatically flickered to life around 5am and which had startled her, as it had done so while she had been brewing tea with the careful precision of a spy navigating enemy territory.

It was, perhaps, the worst and hardest part about family holidays: there was little privacy to be had and and even less time for yourself. And, Robin noted with surprise, for someone who generally enjoyed the presence of her family and who, for years, had revelled in the chaos that surrounded Christmas in Masham – the frantic last-minute cooking and shopping, her mother's sharp commands to stir or chop or taste, Rowntree's excited barks, Martin's jolly teasing – she found herself overwhelmed with it now; overwhelmed by the noise, the barking, the way people kept bumping into her, the continuous tasks Robin had to complete when the only thing she wanted was to sit down and just breathe for a moment.

Since her arrival two days ago, Robin had scarcely found a moment for herself – not even a sliver of privacy or peace – except when she retreated to her old bedroom in the evening and lay awake until the early morning hours.

Even then, tranquility was a rare luxury. Though her niece slept through the night usually, the unfamiliar surroundings kept the toddler restless, swinging between bouts of crying and bursts of wall-bouncing energy. With Robin's room right next door, there was little she didn’t overhear.

But worst of all had been her mother's endless questions.

Despite her official invitation and her increasingly pointed inquiries over the course of a damp and cold November and an even frostier December, which Robin had not too successfully dodged, delayed, and sidestepped, Robin had, in the end, arrived without Ryan Murphy in tow. She had watched with both vicious satisfaction and no small amount of anger as her mother's face fell with disappointment when the door on the nearside hadn't opened to reveal the handsome detective with whom Linda had spent so many hours on the phone while Robin had been undercover.

The disappointment had been a constant undercurrent since then, mounting as Robin refused to share more information about her boyfriend's whereabouts.

The joint stress and pressures of her mother's disapproval, her family's overbearing presence and Robin's latent homesickness for London, had driven her to this: getting up as  early as possible to enjoy at least one cup of strong tea before the storm. Robin hadn't made the effort to get dressed or switched on the radio, and instead sat there in the all-encompassing semi-darkness engaged in an activity which few people would have attributed to her – brooding.

Despite her therapist's insistence – whose help she had only begrudgingly sought after Strike and Ilsa's persistent urging – that she focus on breaking free from her growing spiral of dark thoughts, Robin couldn’t stop herself from scrutinising the past few months of her life as if under a magnifying glass.

Though her career had stabilised and seemed to be going from strength to strength with each year – which a glance at her bank account and the heavy envelope with a Christmas bonus forced into her hand by her partner confirmed – her private life was as complicated as ever; a state of being she, Robin, was very much responsible for.

Her sigh echoes through the kitchen and her hand automatically reaches for her phone which lies, its screen dark and foreboding, at her elbow.

She taps the screen. The time reads 5:32 a.m. and there are no new messages waiting for her, just as there had been no messages thirty minutes ago, or last night, or at any point since her arrival – at least no messages she was looking forward to reading.

She opens her messages and taps her partner's name.

16:12

Arrived safe and sound, roads ok, Masham still standing. Rx

16:14

Sounds good. Have a good Christmas. Cx

Robin had waited for longer than necessary for another message, for any sign, for a call even – but none had come and so Robin, uncharacteristically, kept checking her phone much to her mothers dismay and curiosity.

Drawing a deep breath, Robin writes out a quick message – no more than a hello how are you and a thank you for her gift, two small golden donkey earrings which Robin now wore –, and, after reading through it, deletes it again before re-typing.

"With all that typing I wonder if you're sending someone the bible," a voice breaks through her reverie and concentration and Robin finds her younger brother, bleary eyed, loose-limbed and rumpled, leaning against the doorway.

"How long have you been standing there?" she hisses and Martin shrugs.

"Long enough to see you typing out your newest novel," he says, stretching his arms over his head, a crack echoing loud enough for Robin to wince. "Man, I sound like a haunted house," he adds with a groan.

Robin locks her phone and puts it back on the table, screen down, as Martin shuffles into the kitchen and switches on one of the small lights above the oven.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"Just a bit of peace and quiet," which you ruined, Robin adds inwardly in a tone she only knows from Strike at his grumpiest.  

"Well, that's over now!" he replies and throws her a bright grin over his shoulder. "Here I am!"

"Yes," and indeed, with Martin here undisturbed solitude will be impossible to find. "I know."

"Ouch," comes the immediate response at her exasperated tone, "it's not even six and you're already mean."

"Didn't know there was a timeframe I had to keep in mind."

"There is," Martin raises his forefinger in a gesture far too reminiscent of their father, "you can be prissy and mean between 7am and 8pm but outside of these hours you need to be nice to your younger brother."

"Remind me to be extra nice to Jon, then," Robin says with a reluctant grin.

"I meant me," Martin's narrow-eyed squint is part reproach, part amusement, "Who cares about Jon? He can deal with your mood at any time."

"You said younger brother and didn't specify," Robin chides, "You need to be more precise in your wording." Her voice takes the same cadence as their father's.

They look at each other and Martin smothers a laugh in the crook of his elbow.

"Why are you already up?" she asks, her hands returning to her cooling mug. "I didn't expect you until noon."

He gestures to her mug as he prepares himself a cup and Robin nods. Martin takes her mug, pours the cold tea down the drain and dumps two teabags into their respective cups. Absent-mindedly, Robin notices that Martin only uses his spotted green earthenware mug which is chipped at the rim, while she herself has automatically reached for what she considers her mug.

"Mostly the job," he complains quietly, "Have to get up at the crack of dawn and on my days off I'm up at the same time, it's unfair."

It's a strange moment, Robin thinks, to realise that the boy she still sees as an seven year old with two missing front teeth and mud splattered on his trousers has grown up enough to have a job.

"How's the job, then?" She asks for a lack of better alternatives and Martin's expression is decidedly unimpressed.

"I drive, Robs, it's literally that," he pours boiling water into their cups. "Are you going to ask me what my plans for the future are next? Because, let me tell you," he plonks a spoon into his mug and stirs, "I get that from mum and if you ask me that I'm going to leave."

"Where to?" Robin's incredulous, "It's not even six!"

"The pub," is his quick answer and Robin scoffs and gestures to where the clock is ticking. Martin sticks out his tongue at her and perhaps 'grown up' is the wrong attribute for her younger sibling.

"'hoos goin' to the pub?" Stephen murmurs, his eyes still half-closed, as he stumbles into the kitchen and promptly bangs into a chair which screeches over the flagstones. Robin wants to bury her face in her hands, because that noise will bring half the family running in a minute, she's sure of it. All three freeze instantly, listening for approaching footsteps.

When none come Martin and Robin glare at their older brother.

"Sorry," he mumbles through a yawn and bumps into the table next. For someone who usually moves through any space with slow and deliberate movements, barely-awake-Stephen is clumsy and uncoordinated.

"Tea," he says to no one in particular, drags Martin into a side-hug that nearly upends their tea, drops into the chair next to Robin and loops his arm around her shoulder to press a sloppy kiss to whatever part he can reach. It's scratchy and lands just above her eyebrow.

Barely-awake-Stephen is also at his most affectionate.

Martin grumbles as he mops up liquid with his pyjama top.

"Use a cloth," the older Ellacott siblings scold him without a second thought.

"Use a cloth," the younger one mocks them as he takes another cup from the cupboard – it's Stephen's mug, Robin observes – and sets out to brew tea.

"Can you take out my tea bag, Mart? I'd like to –," she doesn't get to finish her sentence as Martin curses and extracts the squishy teabag by plunging his fingers into the hot beverage, which, to no one's surprise, leads to more swearing.

"Oh for god's sake, use a spoon!" Robin rebukes.

"Don't swear," Stephen reprimands him.

Martin turns, and stares at Stephen, incredulous. Robin is also looking at their older brother not believing what she has just heard. Martin then glances at her and his expression twists into a blend of amused disbelief and a glower as he exaggeratedly points at Stephen and shakes his head.

It's Robin's turn to smother her laughter as Stephen scowls.

"You've gotta talk, mate," Martin says and Robin giggles as Stephen pouts, his arms crossing over his broad chest. "You swear like a fucking sailor!"

"Jenny doesn't want me to," he grumbles as he slouches further down in the kitchen chair, "Annabell said 'shit' when we came over last and mum and Jenny's mum were not amused, let me tell you."

This doesn't lead to less hilarity.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, rolling his eyes, "Go and make fun of me."

"Oh, don't worry," Martin laughs, "We will ." He sets Robin's mug down in front of her and distributes the other two before his brother and himself.

"Yes, Button," Robin adds, "We will, because you asked so nicely." She pats his arm for effect.

Stephen tries to kick Martin and punch Robin at the same time, a weak punch she easily evades, and he catches the kitchen table instead because Martin has pulled his legs back as far as he can.

Stephen violently curses under his breath as their younger brother snorts with suppressed laughter.

"Why are you awake?" Martin asks both of them after they have calmed down and listened whether their squabbling has roused the rest of the family.

"Routine," Stephen shrugs, unconcerned.

"Quiet," Robin answers absentmindedly as she blows the surface of her tea.

"And you're sitting here with Mart of all people? For quiet?" Stephen says with a grin.

"Hey!" Martin wails, "I can be quiet." He ignores the disbelief on their faces as he takes a petulant sip of his too hot tea.

"He wasn't there when I came down," Robin sighs, now surprisingly happy at their company. Even though she's staying for a couple of days, there seems to be precious little time the three of them can spend together, without any interference by other family members.

The stairs outside the kitchen creak as someone sneaks down. They halt all their movements and fall silent.

"Jon?" Stephen whispers hopefully, as if their lowered volume would prevent them from being discovered.

"Jon," concurs Martin quietly.

And, indeed, it's their youngest brother who opens the door and glares at them, his blonde hair sticking up on one side of his head and a deep pillow crease on his cheek.

"Can't you piss quietly?" he hisses like an angry, sleepy kitten at Stephen. "I could hear you banging about in the bathroom in my room!"

Stephen rears up in defense but Jon, still tired and grumpy, cuts him off by moving a chair around between Robin's and Stephen's, drops into said chair, kicks his older brother and then stretches out across them, his elbow painfully digging into Robin's stomach and his feet awkwardly dangling over the side of Stephen's lap. Martin, who sits across the table, waits until Jon has rearranged himself into a different uncomfortable position before putting his feet up close to Jon's chest and pressing his toes against him. Jon drops his arm around Martin's ankles and closes his eyes.

"Jon," Robin groans, "Come on, get back upstairs." She doesn't shove him off, but it's a close thing. Jon has always been the baby of the family and despite their constant rows and latent jealousy at their parents spoiling the youngest of the four, neither of the three oldest would ever truly try to hurt Jon or push him away.

Rather the opposite, Robin thinks, as all of them secure Jon as well as they can.

"No," comes Jon's voice from where he has turned his face into the fleece of her pyjama-bottoms. "I haven't had any time away from everyone for days, and everyone keeps telling me what to do, so I'll need five minutes without anyone bleating about something or the other."

"And," Martin wriggles his toes, "that's why you want to stay here with us?"

"Yeah," Jon scoffs through a yawn, "you're not everyone."

"Awww, sweet baby," Martin prods Jon with a grin, "you love us."

Stephen distractedly pats Jon's thigh while Robin runs her fingers through his golden hair, so similar to her own.

"No," the younger man replies sleepily; an answer which sounds far too affectionate.

The foursome stays quiet for a moment or two before Martin, who never dealt with quiet particularly well, breaks the relaxed atmospehere that has descended.

"So, who were you writing your novel to?"

"I wasn't writing a novel," Robin replies, "I was just, well, writing and deleting a message."

Stephen glances at her. "Should I proof-read it?" A small grin tugs at his mouth. "You know, like in the old days?"

Jon makes a noise of inquiry.

"Robin wrote a love note to one of my mates once," Stephen starts with a quiet laugh, "And then gave it to me, asking whether I – and I quote – could make it sound less love-sick and more blokey."

Martin claps a hand over his mouth and Jon muffles his laugh in Robin's trouser-leg.

"Bugger off," she protests, "I was fourteen!"

"Still," Stephen, the traitorous asshole , sing-songs, "I helped her out but unfortunately Tom liked someone else and thought it was a little too blokey."

"I do not need you to proof-read my texts," Robin mutters, the past rejection of her teenage crush stinging a lot less now than it did during that one inglorious summer.

"Well, if you spend hours writing and rewriting them, maybe you do need our help," Martin comments sagely, while Jon nods in agreement.

"I didn't spend hours –" Robin, without upending Jon, kicks Martin's leg, "on a message!"

Which is a lie and yet it isn't: She hasn't spent hours on it, but days .

"No you just spent hours overthinking it," Jon yawns again and flinches as Robin tugs at his hair harder than warranted.

"Did not!"

"Did!" replies Martin.

"Did not!" Robin spits.

"Did!" Stephen declares.

"You're all so childish," she snarls and Stephen pokes her side until Robin is squirming and Jon is holding onto Martin's legs for dear life.

"No, no, no," he frantically counterbalances during the scuffle and Stephen and Robin eventually need to properly drape Jon over themselves again, all the while glaring at each other.

Martin, the little shit, is leaning back in his chair watching them like a benevolent aunt. "So, who's the message for?" He doesn't even give her a chance to reply. 

"Is it the break-up message for Murphy?" His eyes glaze over dreamily. "That's all I want for Christmas!"

"What the f–?"

"Ah, ah! No swearing!" Stephen pokes her again.

"That goes for you, Button, not for me."

"You're no help at all," Stephen grouses and laughs when the other three nod in unified Schadenfreude at Stephen's predicament.

"No, but all jokes aside: is it?" Martin probes.

"What?"

"A break-up message?"

"No."

"Is it a 'we need to talk' message that anticipates a break-up?" Martin goes on.

"Pft," says Jon, "Didn't know you knew what anticipate means." That earns him Martin's sock-clad foot rubbing right across his face.

"Martin!" he slaps the toes that keep trying to tap his nose away.

"It's not," Robin says and moves Martin's feet out of their youngest brother's face. "Stop that."

"Hm," Martin takes a sip of his tea, "What's it then?"

"Just a thank you note, really," Robin carefully looks away from her brothers, pretending that the message is just that. And that she hasn't obsessed over the implications of a thank-you-text to her partner for the better part of yesterday and this morning. When has their relationship become so awkward and stilted that Robin ponders over the various meanings of an added kiss to the message or the potential differences between 'thanks' and 'thank you'?

Even Jon turns his head to stare at her.

"What? It is!" she exclaims in the face of such undeserved disbelief.

"Right," Stephen says.

"Riiiight," Martin echoes.

"Of course," Jon's tone screams with incredulity.

"Is it for the earrings?" Martin wriggles his eyebrows and points to his own ears.

"Which are definitely not from Ryan," Stephen chimes in.

Robin generally likes her brothers, even loves them individually, but at the moment she wants to deny ever having had warm feelings for any of the three idiots before her.

"What makes you say that?"

"Too thoughtful," Jon predictably asserts, not even the hint of a question in his tone. "He seems more like the theatre tickets and ugly flowers kind of guy."

"Weren't you tired a minute ago?"

"That was before you argued with Stephen and tried to dump me on the floor."

Robin closes her eyes in annoyance.

"So?" Martin is like a dog with a bone, leaning forward and peering at her curiously.

"Yes, it's for the earrings and, yes, they are not from Ryan, because," she pauses, "we're not together anymore."

"Yes!" Martin pumps his fist in celebration.

"Quiet!" his siblings reprimand him unisono and his second yes is much quieter than the first.

"How so?" It's always Martin who asks but Jon is just as curious, waiting for her reply, and Stephen is watching her avidly over the rim of his cup.

"Didn't work out," maybe they'll be satisfied with her nebulous answer. Then again, she's sitting at a table with Linda Ellacott's other children and inquisition seems to run in their blood and if she knows anything about her (rather annoying) brothers it's that they won't let go. "He wanted marriage and children and a semi-detached house and I didn't. As easy as that."

She gulps down more tea, not mentioning the fact that Robin not only didn't want such a future but, most importantly, didn't want that future with Ryan . Couldn't even imagine it, in fact

"But you knew that beforehand, why break up now?" Stephen has always had the ability to sound overly harsh even when he's trying to be comforting. Not that Robin hasn't asked herself the same question over and over again.

"Just didn't work out and there was never the right moment to break it off before," Robin sounds petulant, she knows, but she hadn't found the right moment to tell Ryan that there wasn't a future for them.

"Did he propose?" Martin asks.

"Was he an asshole?" Jon tags on.

"No, he didn't and, no, he wasn't," Robin defends Ryan and, partially, her own decision, "He was perfectly nice and, yes, he did ask me whether we should look at flats together," an offer that had filled Robin with insurmountable dread. In some way, it had been this reaction, more than his proposal, which had put the last nail in the coffin of their relationship.

"I didn't feel the same way about him as he did about me." And hadn't that been an uncomfortable admission? Robin can still see Ryan's face contorting with pain as she, in a bout of frustration and to end his pestering, told him that she wasn't in love with him and never would be. "So we ended it."

In the end it had been a mutual resolution, even if Ryan had looked heartbroken and had asked, over and over again, whether they couldn't try again; couldn't try for another month, or two, until Robin felt a little more like herself again. But Robin had very much felt like herself, and had nearly sobbed with relief of having gotten out of a relationship that had begun to feel far too reminiscent of her marriage to Matthew.

"You haven't told mum yet," Martin squawks gleefully, "That's why you have been dodging her questions about Ryan!"

"Yes," Robin bends over and rests her forehead on her arms in ill-disguised despair, "Wasn't the best choice."

Stephen's hand finds a place between her shoulder blades and rubs comforting circles over her back.

"Good one though," he says quietly, "Mum would have had kittens. And she would have given you an even harder time."

"I wish you had said it, Robs," Jon jokes, "So we could have listened to yet another installment of Why My Children Are a Disappointment: The Musical ."

The four of them snigger at Jon's snide tone and the picture he paints.

"Aren't we all just wonderful disappointments to mum?" Martin stretches his arms behind his head. "All of us – except Stephen!"

"Not sure about that," Stephen says with a grin, "I was her first disappointment after all. You know, when I met Jenny."

Robin huffs, remembering the angry rows between Stephen and their mother when Stephen had fallen in love with his then-girlfriend.

"What?" Jon turns his head towards the oldest at the table, "But mum loves Jenny!"

"Yeah," Stephen slides his hand away from Robin's shoulder and drapes his arm across the back of the chair between them. "But at first? Not so much. Not the right family, too old, too brusque, too honest, too head-strong." He lists the points his mother had loathed and he had loved from the start. "She tried to forbid me from seeing her, actually."

Robin laughs. "And I kept giving you alibis when you snuck out to see her anyway."

"True!" both siblings grin in remembrance.

"I remember sneaking in once through the living room window in the dead of night," Stephen snorts a laugh, "And mum suddenly appears in the doorway just as Robin is trying to close the window."

"Oh, you mean when you dove behind the sofa, reeking of booze, and I had to come up with some harebrained excuse while mum started to tidy up the plants I had taken down in order to get the window open in the first place?" Robin easily picks up the thread of the story.

"Yep," Stephen's grin widens, "and your excuse was 'I needed fresh air', which I can't believe mum accepted."

"I was the dutiful child who never lied, that's why!"

"Where was I when that happend?" Martin asks.

"Asleep, hopefully," comes the deadpan answer from his siblings. Jon lets out a laugh.

"Ha-ha," the middle brother rolls his eyes, "aren't you two proper comedians."

"What made mum change her  mind?" Jon pipes up before Martin can derail the conversation.

"I just stuck with Jenny," Stephen shrugs as if those years hadn't taken a toll on him and as if his relationship with their mother hadn't taken years to fully mend; as if Stephen doesn't get defensive immediately when their mum looks at Jenny a certain way. Robin, who had briefly forgotten that her mother hadn't liked her sister-in-law at first, wonders if she just needs to stick with Strike for another decade until her mother will finally relent and start talking about him with anything other than disapproval.

Not that they are a couple or anything, but still, it's worth a thought.

"And I thought I was a disappointment," Martin wonders. "You know, no job, no brains, and a kid on the way."

"Don't talk about yourself like this," Robin's voice is sharp. Though their neighbours in Masham whisper about Martin and his wild and boisterous nature, and his drinking, and the presumed lack of intelligence and drive that Stephen, Robin and Jon seemed to have inherited, it's something else coming from the younger man himself. "You're dead smart."

"And you actually have a job," Stephen's voice is just as firm, after years and years of building up Martin's confidence when similar comments had been made within his earshot. "Something neither Mrs Harrow nor Mrs Alderson's sons can boast about."

"And you always get by, don't you?" Jon adds from his prone position underneath the table top. "And you got your job about a minute after you had the interview. If anything, I'm much more of a disappointment."

The three older siblings immediately rise to his defense.

"None of you play for the other team!" Jon asserts over the din of their voices. "Or both teams, actually. Not that this makes it any easier! You should have seen mum's face when I told her I was dating Rick – like Christmas and her birthday had been cancelled at the same time."

"Don't worry," Stephen pats Jon's hip. "She'll be a bit weird about it but will come round to it.

"At least your jobs are safe and you don't end up knifed or in a cult," Robin adds for good measure. "And none of you are divorced!"

"The horror!" Jon cries.

"The scandal!" Martin clutches his chest.

"What will the neighbours say?" Stephen makes a face that is oddly similar to their mothers at her most obnoxious which sets off quiet giggles around the table again.

Robin relaxes with every minute.

"Why don't we do that regularly," Martin unknowingly continues her train of thought. "Like, this ." He gestures around the kitchen which fills with more and more light as the night creeps steadily towards daybreak.

"Have you noticed that mum doesn't leave us alone for one minute?" Jon turns so that he's lying on his back.

"And we can't just sneak off into my room, because Annabell would want to be included."

"And if we sneak into mine, mum would get suspicious and give us even more tasks."

"Right," Martin leans forward again and, his eyes firmly on the table, says: "I miss it though."

Robin feels the telltale itch in the nose that warns of approaching tears. While she has no desire to move back home or spend more time at her parents’ house than necessary, and though she rarely has time to spare a thought for her brothers when she’s in London, she can’t deny that this morning, with its squabbling and banter, is deeply comforting. It's unpretentious, easy, and free of the need to play the part of professional Robin, or pretend to be Robin-who-has-her-life-together or be someone she plainly isn't – it's similar to what she has built with Strike, or Ilsa and Nick, or even Vanessa, but it's also different, and somehow more , with her brothers.

"Yeah, me too." Stephen's oddly tender admission, from such a taciturn man, comes as a surprise. "It's great with mates, but this is nice."

"We could meet up in London," Jon says, grinning up at Robin, "Stay at Rob's place and go to a pub."

Then his grin turns unbelievably wicked. "Or you could host a dinner party and invite Strike."

Robin reaches down and pushes at his stupidly grinning face while Martin guffaws.

"Only if you bring really shitty friends along," she warns, having not quite forgiven him for the inclusion of his university friends and their part in the disastrous Valentine's dinner.

He grimaces.

"Sorry?" he says and tries his patented puppy-dog eyes at her. She looks down at him, unmoved by the expression that has their parents bent to his whims all too easily.

"But you could, actually," Martin interjects out of nowhere, his tone carrying an undercurrent that makes the hairs on the back of Robin’s neck stand up. She knows that tone – it’s his signature way of signaling, with barely concealed mischief, that he’s up to something. "Bring Strike along."

If Martin ever wants to switch careers, Robin muses, they might want to offer him a contract with the agency. Subtlety isn’t his strong suit when it comes to questioning but his tenacity is commendable.

"Yes, Martin, I could" she says, long-suffering, and then folds immediately. "And yes, the earrings are from him and, yes, I was trying to text him. Happy now?"

"Yep," he pops the 'p' obnoxiously and wrinkles his nose at her.

"Oh," Jon cranes his head, "They are actually nice!" She dislikes the tone of surprise and counters with a brief re-telling of Strike's gift on her 30th birthday.

"Eh," Stephen looks gobsmacked. "He bought you perfume and took you to the Ritz?"

Jon's mouth hangs open.

"Yes, it was really thoughtful and lovely, and he's a good friend, so don't be so surprised," she flicks Jon's forehead.

"Rob," Martin starts, "you're a detective, right?"

Robin nods, already anticipating whatever stupid comment will follow.

"A good one, right?"

She nods again.

"Are you sure?"

"Excuse me?"

"Because I'm not so sure – I mean, he takes you on a date and you call him 'a good friend –"

"He's my best friend –"

But Martin overrides her protest. "If I planned something like that it'd only be for the woman I'm head-over-heels for and not my best friend."

"Unless it's an explicit wish," Stephen points out and receives a nod from Martin.

"Yeah, that."

Robin stays quiet, willing the blush that threatens to expose her and her carefully kept secret away. But Jon is still resting his head on her lap and has a rather good and close-up view of his sister's face.

"Why are you blushing?"

Like hounds on a fox hunt Stephen and Martin zero in on her.

"Aha!" Martin points a finger at her and Robin wants to pull him across the table to, gently, clobber him with a teaspoon. "You've got a secret!"

"I hate you," she says, cross at her pale complexion and Jon's eagle eyes.

"That the reason for your break up?" Stephen pokes her shoulder. "Strike?"

"No," Robin fumes, "It's not, he's not"

A pause.

"Not directly."

"Aha!" This time it's Jon, who reaches up to pinch her cheek. "Tell us more."

Robin would like to do a number of things, chief among them punting Jon on the flagstones and throwing her left-over tea in Martin's grinning face, but the last thing on that list is telling them about Strike's confession or their complex relationship that hasn't gotten any easier after her all too recent break-up.

"You're in love with him," Martin guesses, eerily accurate on his first try.

"No, he's in love with her!" Jon waves his hand around.

"No, someone else is in love with both of them!" Martin crows.

"No, they are in love with the same person," Jon is laughing hard enough to nearly upset himself. He keeps a hand on the table to steady himself.

"You're all stupid," Robin moans, in an attempt to divert the attention away from her feelings for Strike.

And then she catches Stephen's eye. His eyebrows rise with an unasked question and Robin makes a helpless gesture. He grimaces with sympathy, both siblings understanding each other without a word being uttered.

Robin doesn't even need to confirm Martin's wild but accurate shot in the dark because Stephen has seen Robin happily and unhappily in love before, has sat next to her on her bed when she had thrown herself into her pillows sobbing, has patted her back awkwardly when her first crush had kissed her and then another girl right after; has seen her twirl in the living room when Matt had asked her out and has seen her dreamily staring into the middle distance thinking about her boyfriend, and she presumes that he can see something similar on her face now; only this time she isn't happily or unhappily in love, but just deeply, deeply in love.

Stephen, with a sigh, reaches over, grasps her phone and unlocks it. Robin nearly laughs out loud at his squint and the way he types in her passcode with a careful forefinger like a far older man would. After a few taps he starts typing. 

While Martin and Jon, increasingly louder, lob their, increasingly more outrageous, theories back and forth, Stephen hands her the phone back, a message written but unsend.

Thank you for the gift, I unpacked it away from my awfully annoying and noisy family and the earrings are great.👍 Can't wait to see you after Christmas.

Robin snorts and deletes the part about her family and the blokey emoji but dithers over the rest. It's not too forward, it's not too just-friends, but gives her enough room for plausible deniability if she wants (and needs) it.

In the end she just closes her eyes, holds her breath and sends Thank you for the earrings, they are lovely. Can't wait to see you after Christmas. Rx in a rush, while her brothers watch like hawks, feeling oddly like she's just sent a note to her crush. It's the same fluttering of nerves, the same churning in her stomach, the same pounding heartbeat she's felt before.

And, incidentally, Stephen's knowing look doesn't help to alleviate the feeling.

Neither does Martin's cheer or Jon's "she did it!".

" What is going on here?" Linda Ellacott's voice cuts through their exhilaration and banter and Stephen flinches and promptly upends his tea over the kitchen table while Martin's chair wobbles precariously on its hind-legs and nearly sends him crashing down.Jon props himself up and cheerfully says "Hi mum!" in a way that will make their mother instantly smell rat. For such consummate actors at different points in their daily lives, all four of them are notoriously bad at pretending to be innocent when faced with their mother, even if they are, in fact, innocent.

"We had tea," Martin fumbles for a cloth as Stephen's tea flows freely across the table.

"And a chat," Stephen frantically tries to clean the spillage with his dressing gown.

"And that's it!" Robin scoots back, moving them out of range, Jon still halfway in her lap.

They are all looking mightily guilty for 'nothing' to have occurred but perhaps it's the Christmas spirit that has Linda shooing them out of the kitchen without even the hint of a reprimand.

"Go upstairs, Stephen love, and dump the gown in the hamper," her hand pushes Stephen toward the door, before she takes the cloth from Martin, briefly stroking his head, "You too."

Both men mumble 'yes, mum' and file out of the kitchen like ducklings.

"I can help," Robin starts as Jon beats a hasty retreat after hugging their mother.

"Upstairs, love," Linda points in the general direction of her bedroom, "I'll do it." She kisses Robin and guides her out of the kitchen. Robin suspects that her mother enjoys the calm before the storm a lot more than she lets on and has carved out her own moments of peace and quiet in a full house.

Robin takes two stairs at a time, while her brothers are waiting at the top.

"Think she heard something?" Martin peers down the carpeted stairs.

"Don't think so," Stephen concurs.

"Think she'll ask?" Jon is trying to see around Stephen's broad back.

Robin's phone pings.

"Don't think so," she echoes her older brother, "Let's go before she catches us."

They disband right there, with each of them returning to their respective rooms, to dress, to shower, to doze for a few minutes until their mother calls for breakfast.

Robin closes the door behind her and reaches for her phone.

I'm glad, me too

She's not disappointed, she tells herself, at his terse reply. Then the three dots begin to move and her phone pings again.

Any chance you could come back sooner?

And again.

You know, to meet up

And again.

You don't have to, of course. Just asking

Robin's grin is so wide it hurts.

Hadn't planned to, but I don't think I can stomach 3 more days here.

She sends it.

It's not the bravest answer, nor is it the most accurate, especially as she had begun to miss Strike the moment she left the office on the 22nd and had wondered if she could persuade him to meet up before they will need to meet at Nick and Ilsa's on the 28th. And from the way he had lingered in the office as she filed the last of their case notes and the way he had held her for a little longer than strictly necessary, Robin had hoped that Strike felt similarly.

She writes: Tomorrow too soon?

His reply is instant: No.

And then: We could meet at mine?

Robin blinks at the screen, having expected a meet-up at the pub or even at the office.

Or I could come to yours?

He's still texting.

Or we could meet at the Flying Horse, whichever you prefer.

Robin looks at the consecutive texts she has received – it's still early and he sounds far too awake for Christmas day – and she contemplates if he's nervous as she is.

Yours is fine, I'll stop by as soon as I'm back :)

Great! :) I'll see you then?

Yes! Let me know if I should bring anything?

No need, got everything.

The three dots appear and disappear before they appear again and Robin tracks their movements closely, willing his response to come through faster.

Or I will have, as soon as you're there. 

Her elated laugh is barely muffled behind her hand. A crush indeed, but one that is certainly, undeniably, hopefully reciprocated.

Can't wait, see you then xx , she replies before throwing herself on her bed with another giddy laugh, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.

She really can't wait.

––––

Only when Robin arrives in Soho on the 26th, it's much later than she anticipated, darker than she thought and she's exhausted and shaking from it as well as from the cold that has seeped into her bones throughout the drive, crawled between her coat and her jumper and settled like an unwanted blanket over her skin. Her fingers are numb with it as she tries to lock her car. Fumbling with the key, she lists forward, briefly, and dejectedly rests her forehead against the icy metal of the Land Rover.

So much for all her well-laid plans.

During her hours of enforced quiet and space away from all others, a quiet even the jolly Christmas music the BBC kept playing couldn't interrupt, Robin had had rather too much time to think.

With Christmas in Masham, surrounded by family, Robin had, as had been the case for the past years, felt lonely amidst her boisterous family. Especially with Stephen and Jenny's second child on the way and Martin approaching fatherhood, Christmas had been about family – and with every comment, Robin had been made to understand that she lacked something vital in that regard.

Jon had likely felt similarly and had followed Robin around, distracting her, keeping up a low mocking commentary about their mother's overbearing behaviour, and generally keeping her company.

"To the two best-looking Ellacott's," he had whispered, topping up her Gin and Tonic with rather too much of the former, "who are, coincidentally and through no fault of their own, happily single and unattached." Their commiseration had been met with disapproving glances by their mother and a fond smile by their father and Robin had been hard pressed to suppress the long-suffering sigh that had threatened to leave her.

Although Robin had chosen not to share the details of her recent breakup, Linda Ellacott, unfortunately, knew her children far too well. Robin’s careful effort to avoid mentioning Ryan too often or at all had likely been enough for her mother to piece things together. Linda's disappointment had only deepened when Robin had cut her visit short, claiming an invitation to a post-Christmas party for her godson that, in truth, wouldn't happen until the 28th.

"You know," Stephen had leaned against the counter next to her, as Robin had angrily cleaned the dinner plates on Christmas, "I could have helped you sneak away in the dead of night."

"How would that have helped?" Robin had hissed back.

"It wouldn't have, but it might have made things easier for everyone," he had replied and then stuck as close to his younger sister as he could, stepping in whenever possible to run interference between her and their mother.

When her departure had come, Linda had hugged her daughter hard, extracted a promise to call from her, before murmuring "I'm so proud of you," into Robin's hair. Robin's anger had dwindled over the course of the morning, with her mother's insistence to provide her second oldest with more food than she could feasibly eat over the next few days, and had nearly extinguished with her mother's words.

And then her four hour drive had stretched and extended and extended even further as heavy snow fell, blanketing her view until she could barely see the road. By the time night descended as swiftly as the snow, she was forced to pull over and take a break.

And then, as she crept along the ice-covered roads toward London, the Land Rover’s heating sputtered and gave out.

All in all, not what she had planned.

What she had planned, had been a quiet evening with her best friend, perhaps a bite to eat, likely a glass of whiskey and certainly a much needed conversation, that would, hopefully, put all those small gestures and touches and looks and messages into perspective and put an end to Robin's long held uncertainty about her relationship with her business partner.

In truth, Robin had been desperate to ask what Strike had meant that afternoon in September, just before she had gone away on a long weekend which, in the end, had heralded the imminent death of her relationship with Ryan. She had convinced herself that, plied with food and alcohol and safe in the relaxed atmosphere of his flat, Robin would be able to dredge up every kernel of courage she possessed and press him for a confession without ambiguity; one that would make Strike's feelings as plain as they could be, that would leave no room for interpretation, no vague implications for them to hide and retreat behind;  a confession that would irrevocably change their future together – even more so than the first admission already had. Robin wanted, no, needed clarity on the words that had shaken her to the core, toppling what she had believed were the unshakable foundations of their friendship. After hedging and waiting and wondering for weeks, if not years, Robin had had enough of covert glances and vaguely flirtatious messages.

But all of that seems moot now; now that she has closed the heavy front door behind her and stares into the darkness that lies beyond the rickety staircase; now that it's already too late for dinner, too late for that conversation. Robin blinks rapidly, her throat working tirelessly to swallow the tears she can feel prickling in the corners of her eyes. Crying won't help her now.

She clutches the handrail with unfeeling hands and drags herself up every single stair, her feet like ungainly lead weights. All she wants to do is to curl up underneath a heavy blanket and hope for some sliver of warmth to return to her frozen limbs.

She's unsure why she's still here, now; why she's climbing those stairs and what she thinks will await her once she reaches the top.

Yes, Strike had wrung the promise – to come upstairs, to come to his place, to talk at his flat, no matter the time – from her just this afternoon, but it's past 2am and Robin is reasonably sure that even Strike isn't awake at this time of night.

(Even if a part of her fervently hopes that he'll open his door in about 15 more steps and that his flat will be toasty; at this point Robin just wants to sleep and to get warm and, to be entirely honest with herself, she wants a hug, but, really, either of the three will do.)

It's a few more steps until she knocks at his door.

Silence greets her.

She knocks again, even softer this time, caught between wishing to wake him and hoping to let him sleep. Maybe she should turn around, head downstairs again, and crash at the office instead – if it had been good enough for Strike, it would be fine for her too. She's knackered and she won't be able to drive home because she can barely look straight.

She reaches for her phone to check the time again.

It's 2:21am now and there's an unread message from her partner which she opens.

Knackered, might fall asleep. Key is under the mat, let yourself in. Drive safe. Cx

Usually, Robin would be kind enough to leave at this point. Maybe she would send him a quick text saying they’d meet up tomorrow (well, later today) to talk.

Usually, Robin would make the conscientious choice to turn on her heel, drive home, and never breathe a word about loitering on his doorstep in the middle of the night

But tonight Robin is still uncomfortably close to tears. And with the cold and her tense Christmas having frayed her nerves and the promise of her partner behind the flimsy door stripping away all of her rigidly  maintained defenses, the only thing left beneath the tightly controlled facade she so carefully keeps up is someone raw, someone who wants nothing more than to take the key, let herself in, and curl up beside the man she’s loved far longer than she’s ready to admit.

And Robin, who rarely takes what she wants, but who is beaten down by circumstance and longing, does shed a tear or five before she grabs the key and, with an oddly detached but liberating feeling, bashes down another wall between Strike and her by simply, quietly slotting a key into a lock and crossing a shabby threshold.

Strike's sleep isn't deep and his flat is drafty and cold. He wakes just as Robin, still indecisive despite having kicked off her shoes already and having dropped her overnight bag by his kitchen table, hovers in the doorway to his bedroom.

He snorts, seems to jerk himself awake, and lets out a quiet groan.

"R'bin?" His speech is slurred and his voice rough with sleep. Moisture pools in Robin's eyes again and her warbled yes rings loud in the quiet.

"Whatimessit?" He runs a hand over his face, the absence of curtains giving Robin a blurred view of his movements as he fumbles around for his watch or phone.

"Half past two," she says, feeling a mix of vague guilt at waking him, horrible fondness at his lack of coordination, and a deep sense of relief just to see him.

He makes a sound that could pass for assent as he struggles into something akin to a sitting position, his arms unsteady and wobbly like the limbs of a newborn colt. He only manages to prop himself up awkwardly and then shifts, as if preparing to get up.

"No, stay," Robin legs move of their own volition until she's standing at the foot of his bed and, in a gesture that is wholly instinctual, she rests her hand on his remaining ankle, squeezing it through the thin duvet, "I think I should go."

She doesn't want to.

"No," he scrubs his hand over his face again, the bristle of his stubble audibly rasping across his palm, "'s 'oo late. Early. Wha'ever. Stay."

Robin's not sure whether he's fully awake, his answers monosyllabic and, as far as she can see, he is struggling to keep his eyes open.

Any reply she might have had is swallowed by a jaw-cracking yawn that has her shivering and even more ready to drop right were she stands.

Strike makes another sound that she can't interpret before he slumps down and rolls to the side, opening up a space next to him. He doesn't say anything, doesn't offer her this space explicitly, doesn't invite her into his bed, but the gesture encompasses all those implicit ideas and Robin, at the end of her tether, pushes all insecurities and fears and what-if's to the side for the night and follows her instinct: She pulls off her jeans and wriggles out of her jumper, leaving her clad in her wooly tights and a thin vest, before she hurries to one side, lifts the covers and slips into bed, her back to Strike.

As soon as the blanket settles over her, and despite the warmth than immediately engulfs her, she starts shivering immediately; shivers hard enough that her teeth are chattering. She feels movement behind her, before an arm carefully curls underneath her head, while a hand gently settles on her hip. His hand is like a brand on her skin, even through a layer of clothing.

After a second of indecision, the hand slides further around her, comes to rest on her stomach and drags her closer to the warm body behind her.

The moment her shoulders make contact with his chest, all bets are off.

Robin, in a reckless instant, abandons all notions of possible regret and decency and taking it all slow because she needs more time and they need to have a talk, and takes his hand, pulls it up under her chin and tugs him as close as she possibly, humanly, can.

He's a furnace at her back and Robin is wracked with shivers as she burrows into his arms, her cold nose pressing into the soft skin of his elbow. Her feet, numb from sitting and cold as icicles, trail up and seek warmth and purchase against his shin and, because that doesn't yield the desired result, Robin folds herself into a smaller ball and tucks her feet up further.

"Thought the Land Rover had heating," he murmurs into her hair, sounding a little more awake now, and his warm breath fans across the nape of her neck.

"Worked for a while, then didn't," she answers, inwardly pondering if there's a chance she can get even closer to him, perhaps crawl underneath his skin and stay there.

" Christ ," he hisses as her toes finally touch his thighs. The position is not the most comfortable, but Robin feels marginally warmer with the bulk of her partner behind and his arms around her.

Strike disentangles his hand from hers and rearranges them, so that their legs end up hopelessly tangled and there's next to no space left between them. After rubbing his hand over her legs in an effort to warm her up more, he slides his arm around her again, returning his hand to its former position under her chin.

Between one thought, that she could get used to being warmed up like this, and the next, that this will change their relationship more than any word they could have uttered, and the next, that his sheets smell like him, like home , Robin falls asleep.

She wakes hours later, after far too little sleep, to a flat in indistinguishable shades of grey. The early morning light

They are still in the same position Robin fell asleep in – perhaps they are not clutching each other as desperately as they did in the early morning hours – and Robin cannot recall the last time she felt so comfortable with another person wrapped around her like ivy vines around an old building.

She shifts and stretches slightly, careful not to disturb him, before realising that, instead of the familiar rattling snores her partner emits when he's deeply asleep – sounds as much a part of her world as the creaks of their sofa or the rattle of the Land Rover – Strike is breathing deeply enough to seem asleep, but his body is too tense for it to be real sleep.

In a split second Robin sees two ways stretching out before her: one in which she doesn't do anything but waits for him to fall back into a doze, making a sneaky escape from what might be a highly awkward situation possible. Maybe she'll pretend that nothing has happened – which isn't far from the truth – and they'll return to normal.

Or just their odd normal, in which strange, affectionate things, and thoughtful gestures, and cheeky texts, and earth-shattering confessions happen – but where none of these things ever change their preferred status-quo.

The other path is a little less defined and feels infinitely less like a status-quo: she could stay, even turn in his arms and snuggle closer – not for warmth but because she craves the closeness and the intimacy –, hoping against hope that their instinctive understanding of each other will translate to this and they'll spend their morning together in some fashion.

As Robin carefully debates the merits of both paths before her, Strike's arm tightens a fraction, and his head tilts forward, his forehead gently coming to rest against the back of her head. Then he shifts again, his nose burying into her hair, breathing her in.

It's a careful gesture – he must know that she's awake too –, that still gives her every chance to disentangle herself from him but also tells her plainly that he wishes she wouldn't.

And that decides it for her.

The moment she moves, Strike lets go of her with a start, likely expecting her to crawl out of bed and reject the affection he seems ready to bestow on her. Instead she simply turns, taking most of the blanket with her, and shifts closer to him before burying her face in his neck. His arms come around her tentatively as if he's afraid that the slightest pressure might cause her to recoil.

Robin sighs quietly, breathing him in. She drapes her arm over his waist and presses her hand against the small of his back, urging him to hug her tighter.

They stay like this for a long while until Strike breaks the dream-like, surreal quality of their morning.

"Warmer now?" He murmurs and she feels the question more than she hears it. She's quite warm but she doesn't want him to move, so she only wordlessly shrugs. His hands caress her back, just as hesitantly as he had taken her in his arms.

She shivers again, but less from the cold and more from the liquid warmth that floods through her at his touch.

His hands become a tad firmer, which doesn't help at all. In fact, it makes her want to press the length of her body against his; makes her want to slide her hands and his underneath the layers of clothing they are wearing to feel warm skin, to trace searing paths down his back, to have his hands span her waist.

Though Robin is usually apprehensive when it comes to all kinds of physical intimacy – she thinks back to the self-conscious and guarded way she had let Ryan touch her the first few times, before familiarity had made her a little more open –, and though she rarely feels the need for these kinds of affection – wants it, certainly, but need ? –, she should have known that things with Strike, once they got to this point, would be different. Perhaps it's the unrequited love that has been her companion for far too long, or the desire she has felt before and ruthlessly repressed when Strike would move just so , or the years of comfort and friendship that have preceded and accompanied Robin's emotional turmoil, but Robin suddenly wants and needs him closer; wants and needs his skin against hers.

And thus she lets her hands wander, trailing them up his back and over his flanks and dipping down toward his belly, before moving them across his arms and to the back of his neck.

"Robin," his voice is quiet but there's a tense note to it, and they are perching precariously on a precipice from which Robin desperately wants to step off of. She tilts her head back, away from the warm spot under his chin, and looks at him. His expression is tight and he holds himself still, but his eyes, oh his eyes , are impossibly and enchantingly dark.

She shivers again and his hand flexes against her back.

Maybe she doesn't have to say a word to make herself known, she thinks and runs her nose slowly along his jaw while her fingers tangle in his hair. She'll have to move further up the bed, if she wants to be face to face with him, but for now she's content to be tucked underneath his chin like this.

Feeling giddy and daring at the same time, she presses a soft kiss to his throat and the noise he makes is gratifying. So she repeats the gesture, hoping that he'll catch on quickly.

His hand leaves its position and cradles her head, before he moves away just far enough to sweep his thumb over her jaw and down her throat before pressing on her chin, tipping her face up. He looks at her, really looks at her, and then dips his head until their lips touch. It barely qualifies as a kiss, the press of his lips to hers so light it could be taken as accidental.

It's an achingly tender thing.

But it doesn't remain so, because, with an audible groan, Strike presses their mouths together harder and what follows is what a teenaged Robin would have called an extensive snogging session.

As a teenager, with a wild and curious streak to boot, Robin had spent many afternoons with her arms around Matthew Cunliffe kissing valiantly for hours like it was an Olympic sport, until she had to leave in order to make it on time for tea. While they hadn't been particularly talented, their kisses wet and open-mouthed and tasting of the spearmint gum Matt insisted on chewing before kissing her after school, the activity had been pleasant enough for teenage-Robin to look forward to and daydream about. But just as their mutual affection had given away to love which, in turn had given away to routine and, eventually, resentment, their long hours of kissing had petered out quickly and had been replaced by perfunctory kisses which, more often than not, had been a prelude to and included in their foreplay.

Thus, the disappointed part of Robin that she had long ago commanded not to yearn for such kisses – and, failing that, had ruthlessly buried in her twenties beneath a mountain of other moments of dissatisfaction – surges to the surface, elated, at the slow, languid movement of Strike's lips against hers.

And when his hand slides through her hair, raking his fingertips through her tresses before cupping the back of her head more firmly, Robin sighs in lazy pleasure and opens her mouth to his. He doesn't take the invitation to deepen the kiss immediately, rather keeping to the same kind of slow exploration he's been bestowing on her. He nips at her lower lip, taking it between his teeth and chances a playful bite, the hint of his front teeth sending tendrils of warmth down her body. Robin huffs a laugh which turns into a soft moan as he finally slides his tongue against hers.

The kiss is no less tender in its increased intensity. It's slow, deliberate and has, fortunately, nothing in common with the sometimes frantic but often fumbling kissing Robin knows. It's unhurried and doesn't demand anything of her; it's a kiss that's pleasurable and enough in its own right.

And perhaps it's exactly that – the undemanding nature of the kiss, the gentle hands on her face and neck that don't stray further than her shoulders but hold her like something infinitely precious, the thorough way his tongue glides over hers, that has Robin's fingers moving from the abrasive stubble she's been caressing over and over to his neck and across his torso until she's fingering the edge of his soft, worn t-shirt and, without waiting for his permission, slips her hands underneath the fabric to find hot, soft skin.

His abdominal muscles twitch under her fingertips, as they walk up his chest, tangling in the curiously soft hair she finds. She carefully tugs at it and his breath hitches.

Whatever it is – their kisses, Robin's exploration of his hirsute torso, the heat rising between them or the fact that they've been building toward this morning for years now –,  as Strike kisses her again, things kick up another notch until he shifts over her, hemming her in underneath his bulk, his hands still on her cheeks.  His kisses turn sloppily now, his breath coming out in erratic puffs of breath.

One of his hands lifts, fumbling across the mattress while Robin tugs the sheet higher in a futile attempt to ward off the chill. His fingers eventually find the lamp on the bedside table, and with a soft click, warm orange light spills over them. Strike slows their kiss and breaks it, staring down at her, taking in her red lips, flushed cheeks and dazed look. Robin likes to think that she looks like she feels: utterly debauched and pleased and wanting.

He opens his mouth to say something but stops and kisses her again. She feels the heat rising between them, as he tilts her head to a different angle, slotting his mouth over hers and kissing her deeply. Though his hands only rove over her arms and shoulders, Robin feels little compunction to keep her touches chaste and, after yanking his t-shirt up and over his head, she rakes her nails down his back and, sliding her hands underneath the waistband of his boxers, grasps his buttocks firmly, kneading into the warm flesh.

His body undulates under her palms, arching up and pushing firmly into her touch. And if that wasn't encouraging enough, the little breathless yes and the whimper that follows has Robin repeating the gesture again and again until his hips jerk helplessly against her hip.

His boxers quickly join his t-shirt and her vest and bra somewhere on his floor, and his reverent second yes at seeing her topless does not just do wonders for Robin's self-esteem but sends a frisson of power and lust through her which only intensifies as he catches her gaze.

His eyes are nearly black in the diffuse light.

Though he gently tends to her – running his hands reverently over her, followed by his wet mouth, sounding wrecked already, with all those shallow breaths and inaudible words of admiration he mouths into her skin – Robin is near desperate to see and touch him instead. She sits up, pushing him back until he balances precariously on his knees, a position that cannot be comfortable for too long, and shifts until more of his weight rests on her thighs and she can do the balancing for him.

He's towering above her, his eyes half-lidded, as she cards through the hair on his torso.

His head falls back as she slides featherlight fingertips over the thin skin where thigh meets hip.

He makes an aborted sound as she scrapes her fingertips across his hip toward the small of his back.

Embracing him, she presses them together, until he is securely in her lap, rubbing himself against her chest with every breath, every movement smearing trails of wetness across her skin.

She looks up, astonished and admiring. His face is flushed, the pink that mars his cheeks extends downward, coating his neck and becoming blotchy across his collarbones. He's even hotter to the touch, his heart beating furiously against her lips and fingers, and Robin hasn't seen anything so magnificent as this man grinding his pelvis into her, seeking friction. She tightens her grasp, stilling him except for tiny, restless movements he can't help himself with making.

Without conscious thought, and after dropping light kisses to every bit of skin she can reach, she begins to whisper her appreciation into the slightly stale air of his flat; tells him how much she adores him, presses the words right into his skin, hard enough that she hopes they'll leave a mark; wants to tattoo her affection across him so that he knows how much he means to her.

"You're beautiful," she breathes, full of awe and feeling and love, while she reaches between them and takes him in hand. Later she might blush at her tone and the words – after all, she has never found a man she was sleeping with beautiful, attractive perhaps, sexy certainly, but beautiful? Never. Especially when both of them are rumpled, sleepy, flushed and working up a sheen of sweat.

But this time?

Well, this time it's different.

He tries to reach around her, between them, in order to touch her in kind, but their position doesn't allow for that, so he's only able to encircle her knee with a hand before he clenches his jaw hard enough that Robin can hear his teeth grind, presses himself into her hand and, with a quiet groan, comes between them.

Though Robin is oddly satisfied with seeing to his pleasure before hers and would be content to clean herself up before dozing off again, Strike clearly has other plans. After he slumps to the side and stretches out next to her, his expression acquires a predatory edge. Before Robin can tell him that she's fine, that they can cuddle, and that she doesn't need him to reciprocate, Strike has pushed her further up the bed and, without further ado, parts her legs and grazes his tongue up the length of her. The feeling is so iridescent that she doesn't even notice when he curls a hand under her thigh, moving it to carve out more space for his body to rest between her legs. There's very little finesse or teasing about his targeted assault, as he fastens his mouth around her and sucks, or when he unceremoniously buries two fingers in her, or when he presses his tongue to the spot that makes her quietly chant 'don't stop' over and over again.

He doesn't and Robin is sure her hearing goes the moment she comes; white noise rushing in her ears as she slowly flexes and relaxes her fingers which are buried into his curls. His cheek is resting on her thigh and he feels overly warm where his skin touches hers.

Robin appreciates the cool draft of air that caresses her heated skin.

"Actually," she says, still trying to catch her breath, "I think I'm too warm now."

He delivers another playful bite, this time to her inner thigh and rubs his stubble over the sensitive skin there. 

"Glad to be of service," he answers with a quiet laugh. "Anytime."