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It was a flippant comment, really. She’d hardly meant anything by it. After twelve hours of non-stop tailing and interviews of her own, a call from Barclay informing her of his daughter’s sprained ankle meant that she found herself sat in the Land Rover with Cormoran, trying desperately to both keep watch on their mark’s front door and conceal her increasingly droopy eyelids.
Cormoran had been chain-smoking for the last hour and a half, as he so often did when idle, lighting up as soon as he’d put one out. He’d been a smoker the entire time she’d known him, and long before that, with the habit increasing or decreasing in intensity depending, often, on his workload. She’d never touched them herself, and if truth be told, before meeting him she’d always disliked the habit, the heavy smell that stuck to clothing and upholstery for weeks. Another, less welcome truth, was that Matthew always stuck by females taking up smoking as “instantly downgrading a ten out of ten to a two out of ten”, as though his system of ranks for women meant absolutely anything. Nevertheless, Cormoran was an adult. He made his own decisions, same as her. He doubtless knew the risks, and it seemed a little silly lecturing a man who’d quite literally been blown up on potentially harming his health. She’d also never admit it, but the smell kind of suited him, and she more than kind of liked that.
However this evening, after fifteen total hours of barely interrupted work, the sight of him lighting up his fourth cigarette, the developing headache and the frigid November chill that continued to hit her through the window he’d cracked specifically for the purpose, appeared to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
“Are you deliberately trying to suffocate me this evening?” She snapped, sighing and staring out of the opposite window, stony-faced.
He’d jumped and then paused, evidently surprised at both her tone and her expression, which suggested her comment hadn’t been any kind of initiation for playful banter. Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell he looked guilty, though he’d disguised it with a heavy scowl. He stubbed out the lit cigarette, tossing it out of the window with a muttered “sorry”, before winding the glass back up.
She sighed and massaged the growing dull ache at her temples.
“I’m sorry for snapping, it’s just-” she began, suddenly conciliatory.
“No, it’s fine. Honestly,” he interrupted, in a tone she felt suggested it was definitely not fine.
They continued the rest of their surveillance in an awkward, stilted silence.
-
In the ensuing weeks, Robin could only describe Strike’s mood as being decidedly erratic. One moment he could be completely fine, and an hour later he’d resemble an agitated bear with a sore head. In his grumpier moments, she remembered the incident in the car and wondered if he was upset with her. She’d never tried to change the habits he valued, and she knew he respected her for that. She’d wished she could take the stupid comment back, but instead, set to silently trying to earn her place back on his good side.
But one evening, while rifling through his side of the desk to find some papers on a client she intended to read before bed, her hand hit against a box, flat and small, while reaching to the back of the drawer. Feeling guilty for snooping, but simultaneously too curious to stop herself while she knew he was safely out on surveillance, she pulled the box out to inspect it.
‘Nicorette Invisipatch – for those who smoke 10 or more a day’
As the behaviour of the last couple of weeks - and now she came to think of it, his dramatically lessened cigarette use - suddenly became neatly explained, she found herself chuckling, alone in the office. She placed the box back carefully, taking the papers she needed, and locked the drawer behind her.
With a lightness in her chest, and a silly smile on her face that she’d swear wasn’t there if you asked her, she let herself out of the office for the night, making her way home to ponder this act of touching consideration she’d never, ever let him know she was aware of.