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The office is empty. Strike hasn’t bothered with the lights. Maybe it’s this time of year that he doesn’t particularly like, maybe it’s the fact that he’s on his second Doom Bar. Whatever the reason, the darkness suits his mood just now.
Is it apathetic? Melancholic? He can’t decide. He doesn’t care.
Apathetic.
He takes another pull from his bottle, and concedes defeat as he switches on the lights of the tiny tree sitting on his desk. The twinkling glow reaches into the shadowy corners of the room, and despite himself, it cheers him.
This feeling is interrupted by a bassline erupting softly beneath him. They had told him they would be having a holiday party. Invited him, even. Strike remembers Robin reading the invitation out loud, leaning against her desk. The recollection of her laughter at his face, of what followed on her desk, makes the next swallow of his drink taste sour.
This is painful. The beer is not doing its job.
The pounding of the music stops abruptly, and a chorus of laughter and applause drifts up. Then the bass resumes its pulsing.
He can’t stand this, so he gets up and lurches towards the filing cabinet. It seems to arrive at his fingertips faster than he anticipated, and instead of him hitting the cabinet, the cabinet hits him. He ignores the sting from his slammed hand, and pulls open the bottom drawer. This is where he keeps a bottle of Scotch, and he needs stronger stuff.
The neck of the bottle clinks against the tumbler, and the sound of it triggers more memories. They pour out of him along with the amber waterfall rushing into the glass.
Robin’s hand finding its way into his on a rainy afternoon at Nick and Ilsa’s.
His mouth on hers, the heady shock of it, the sheer, blissful perfection of finally kissing her. Properly.
The sound of her moan as she arched beneath him, as they became tangled up in sheets during a perfect night.
The way her skin flushed as she called him out on things he needed to be called out on.
The tears sparkling in her eyes when he didn’t listen.
The lights on the tiny tree blink suddenly out, and Strike feels like it’s a sign.
Melancholic.
He lifts his tumbler to his lips. There is nothing left in the glass but fuzzy amusement that he has drank it so fast.
He is chuckling to himself, a bit bitterly, when his office door opens, and there stands Robin. Her cheeks and nose are rosy pink. Her scarf is a merry red. She is a beautiful, delicious, candy-cane of colours. His Robin.
No. Not his Robin.
Not anymore.
But she’s here, looking downright edible, and he’s suddenly aware of his tangled hair, his rumpled trousers, his shabby Army hoodie. The smell of whisky in his glass seems to permeate the whole room. She sniffs, and it’s the most sobering thing, because it makes him realize that her eyes are red, too. She’s fighting tears.
He reaches a hand out to her and it hangs awkwardly in mid-air.
“Robin.”
She shakes her head, tears spilling over, and the sight of it makes his throat ache. She is holding his gaze steady in hers.
She is so fierce.
“I need you to-“
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, interrupting her even though he hates to cut her off.
She wipes her eyes. Another miserable sniff.
Robin’s hand is the one in the air now, she’s the one with the olive branch, and it doesn’t hang awkwardly because he takes it. He’s got her in his arms in two steady strides, and he’s whispering his apology over and over into her hair, her neck, her open lips against his. It sounds like it’s losing meaning, but it’s the opposite. He means it more and more each time he says it. It’s becoming a vow.
“I’m sorry.”
They’re fumbling now, he’s unwrapping her scarf and her hands are quick at his fly. Their kiss is long and unbroken. His desire is heavy and obvious and she moves against him with purpose. The friction is heavenly frustration.
A part of him knows that a conversation has to follow this. A part of him knows he has to do better.
Right now, his hands are full of Robin. His heart is full of Robin.
He’ll try harder, he’ll communicate more.
He’s about to show her just how much he appreciates her. Over and over again. His exploring hands are foreshadowing; his tongue is a promise.
His body is a pleasurable, demanding, rush of blood.
As they head upstairs, the lights on the miniature tree blink back on again, casting warm light onto an empty tumbler and an opened bottle of Scotch.