#perfectpunctuation

          strike wasn’t labouring under any delusion and whilst the anger bubbling in the blood that furiously pumped through his veins was directed at him and his mistakes and his oversight, it was also meant for robin. seeing her now barely alleviated the feeling. bruised and pale and still groggy from the cocktail of painkillers they gave her, not to mention the drip of morphine that would every few minutes whir and instill the needed drug in her body, she didn’t move when the door to her hospital room pulled open to allow him in. nor did she try to.

“i’d kill shanker if i weren’t already on the met’s radar screen.”

that he secretly liked the budding partnership between his friend and robin had no bearing in the situation robin had landed in. if anything, it only worsened it. and his mood. “brockbank would have destroyed you, do you realise that?”

i'm just going to say that after so many hours, I still have so many feelings about it.

@perfectpunctuation

“I screwed up during my presentation and everybody hasn’t let me live it down. Especially at the reunion. I honestly have no idea, why I came back. Everybody is just going to prank me and I’m just afraid, you know?” He stated as he brought his sapphire gaze up to the blonde in front of him. “You remember don’t you?” William asked as he made his way towards her. “I guess, I was just dreading this myself.”

❤ ▬▬ EMOTIONAL STARTERS TO KICK YOU IN THE FEELINGS. / @perfectpunctuation

          was he? perhaps not deliberately. perhaps in ways which, in spite of remaining subtle, had failed to achieve the not so unconscious aim of being inconspicuous. strike wasn’t the kind of man telling himself lies - even where robin was concerned. especially where robin was concerned. he wasn’t the kind of man who would feed her lies, either. not the necessary ones, at any rate. he’d once pretended to sack her; and the phony situation hadn’t been one to her, the hurt inflicted as vivid and genuine as if he’d genuinely got rid of her. was he to give her a fake answer now? to offer some reason that would ring true whilst being completely fabricated for her benefit?

admitting emotions, confessing an attraction, had never proven to be a problem for strike. his mind was too pragmatically analytical to make room for a coy embarrassment most people were bound to feel when standing in front of the very one they… they what? fancied? too weak and too shallow. liked? liked would make him sound like a teenager. loved? far too deep and raw. 

          HABITS HAD ingrained themselves into their now entwined lives. Tacitly, agreements had been reached, occurrences had morphed into patterns, a routine had been set into place. Strike, therefore, found himself dialling for a cab and giving him Robin’s address instead of his own. It was late. Early, rather. Over the rooftops, he watched the sky shed its dark coat tainted by the city lights to allow the sun to cast its own upon it in various shades of orange and yellow. London was waking up. A yawn escaped him and he fought sleep, the throbbing pain in his knee the sole and unique shield warding off slumbers.

As cautious as he was, as silent as he tried to be, his cumbersome walk rendered all the more stiff and clumsy after a night chasing shadows across the city elicited a stir from the shape curled up under the covers. Even now, habits prevailed: his coat was discarded in neat fold on the back of the only comfortable chair in her room, his shoes pushed under it. That was all he managed to achieve before reaching for the bed. Under his weight, the mattress bowed and the base creaked. Strike bit back an expletive, exhaled loudly through his nose and closed his eyes. He should take off his prosthetic. Perhaps swallow a couple of painkillers. Or he could rest for a few minutes then tend to it and attempt to relieve the pain.

On the other side, Robin stirred. He mumbled something, his mind already drifting, lost to the haze of that blissful state between sleep and consciousness; and whatever he’d said earned him a soft chuckle and a kiss. Did he smile then? His head rolled on the pillow, eyes still closed, body sinking into the warmth and the scent of the woman beside him. She moved. He could feel her move. Blindly, a hand reached out for her, caressed its way down the sheet until it found fabric then flesh. Robin moved again, spoke, sat up. The sheets were pulled off. That was greeted with a grunt of protest she ignored. When she worked on his trousers to gingerly slid them down, Strike rolled, lifted the lower part of his body and opened his eyes. They blinked in their struggle under the sharp light of the morning sun.

“Don’t bother,” he mumbled, closing his eyes again and burrowing his face into her pillow. There, he took in a breath, filled his lungs with her scent. A stupid lopsided smile pulled at his lips. “Robin…”

“Shush.”

That she was used to doing this, to working her fingers on the mechanism holding the prosthetic to his knee, to knowing how to take it off without causing him any pain or discomfort was enough to stir something within him. For want of holding her nestled against him, his arm wrapped about the pillow. The leg was taken off, discarded with a small thud at the foot of the bed she then abandoned. He thought of protesting, of calling her back to it. Perhaps he did. Already, Strike was slipping in and out of sleep, aware of her presence and attuned to it without it impeding on his falling asleep.

          ROBIN’S BRIDAL dress looked nothing like the green one from Vashti; yet both suited her, enhanced her. And Strike didn’t think twice about gazing at her throughout the reception. She was the bride, wasn’t she? The center of attention. The convergence of stares and looks. Every now and then, their eyes would meet across the room, a fluctuating mass of bodies in between them, and they would smile. Not a word was exchanged, her duties preventing her from lingering too long with one person, from having too prolonged a conversation, and Strike busied himself with wine and food and the occasional and perfunctory small talks weddings were wont to require.

“Dance with me.” Behind him, Robin’s voice pulled him away from a rather bothersome discussion with an elderly man intent on telling him all about the war he’d been in after learning that Strike himself was a veteran.

He turned around and smiled again, his gaze falling on her. Denying her wouldn’t do. Not on that day. Should he tell her that ballroom dances weren’t something his body was made for? A push on his good leg, a hand grazing her waist to snake his arm around it, and they were both carving their way amidst the couples already moving on the floorboards. Don’t let me slip, he mentally prayed.His grip on her tightened, bringing her flush against his chest.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered in her ear. Against the side of his face, he could feel her smile. “You’ll be fine.” Over the collar of his shirt, he could feel her hand, her fingers idly playing with the starched fabric. He smiled.

They moved, feet learning how to take steps, legs bending and stretching in clumsy unison until they reached a more harmonious motion. Strike didn’t need to look down at her, Robin’s height and heels bringing her face before his own. Neither of them spoke, content to listen to the music and attune the movements of their joined bodies to it, notes and melody the only words and conversation they needed. Robin was gazing about her, oblivious - either willingly or unwillingly - to Strike’s eyes caressing the slope of her shoulder snug in delicate lace, the outline of her face, the curve of her throat. The brush of his fingers wrapped about her own the only skin to skin contact they experienced.