In many ways, this piece stands apart from the series. I haven't rehashed any key scenes, or kept to any plot elements from episodes. What I've tried to do is attempt a rewrite on how Hobson and Lewis might have got together. So, in terms of end result, this is entirely 'in canon'. But don't expect to see anything too familiar in the details! Hope you enjoy.
As she joined the queue at the checkout, Dr Laura Hobson sighed. Wednesday night, always the worst time to hit the supermarket...there was something about the middle of the week that meant people flocked to the place. And, as usual, there were about four cashiers on. Fabulous. She closed her eyes, and rubbed the bridge of her nose, wincing a little as she lifted her arm. That had been her own fault too. Trying to do too much on her own... She knew the lifting procedures as well as anyone, but no, she'd insisted in hauling the cadaver over on her own, and in the process had pulled most of the muscles in her right shoulder. The fact that she could reel off the precise list of which muscles she'd injured, in order of size, was of little consolation. If it was hurting now, tomorrow would be bloody agony. The queue moved forward almost imperceptibly. Scanning the other tills, she noticed a face she recognised. Robbie. He was further ahead in his queue, and craning her neck ever so slightly, she could make out a selection of ready meals, a couple of pizzas and beer on the conveyer belt. She smiled in spite of herself. Typical Robbie. Well, at least it wasn't takeaway tonight. He shuffled forward a bit, and she wondered idly what his evening would be. Something to do with a ball, no doubt. He'd been boring her stupid last week about the start of the football season, and she'd been genuinely surprised to hear that, with a Sky box, you could watch football practically every night. She shuddered at the thought.
Her queue moved up a bit, and she hauled her basket on to the belt, slowly unloading the items. Poor Robbie, always so predictable, always so... No, that wasn't fair. He was a good friend. More than that. He was loyal and dependable. Warm and, assuming Hathaway hadn't wound him up too much, affectionate. And he was clever. Really clever. You'd never know it on first glance, but his wit was second to none, and although they always teased Hathaway for his erudition, she knew that Lewis was often several steps ahead of his sergeant. It was simply that he had the experience and grace to allow the boy his moment of brilliance.
She smiled to herself. There was something solid about Robbie, a steadiness that she had always admired. But, and she knew better than most, still waters most certainly ran deep in his case. The cashier tutted impatiently, and she started to pack her things. A few aisles down, Robbie picked up the last of his bags. She could have called out, said hello, but she didn't. She wrestled with the stupid plastic bags, packing up the last of her shopping, and headed to the car park, her arm stinging with the weight of the load. Not quite knowing why, she scanned round the car park, so see if he was still there, but he'd gone.
On the drive home, she was distracted. Sliding the car into fourth gear, she thought about the conversation she'd had earlier that morning in the corridor at the station with Hathaway. They were both giving evidence tomorrow about a recent case, and had fallen into a chat about the timing of their respective cross examinations. He'd asked her if Robbie had said anything to her about retiring, and she'd tried not to laugh. He had looked serious, and she'd quickly explained that Robbie never stopped talking about retiring. But Hathaway had looked concerned and he pressed her again. Apparently Lyn was putting pressure on Lewis to move up North again. She'd mentioned it before, just after Val's death, but Robbie had always resisted. Laura had smiled, trying to reassure Hathaway that it was old news. But in all honesty, she wasn't sure. She knew he missed his family a lot. It was strange that he hadn't mentioned anything recently to her about it though...
As she swung the car into the drive, cursing as her arm objected, Laura tried to shake herself from her thoughts. She was tired. Today had been bloody awful. She hated PMs on suicides and children, and today she'd somehow managed both. A terminally-ill cancer patient who'd taken matters into his own hands this afternoon, and then the preparation for tomorrow's child abuse trial. It was tempting to fall face-first into a pizza and a bottle of Malbec, but she needed to burn off some of this nervous tension. All she needed was a decent run through the parks and along the river.
Within ten minutes, she had the shopping away, and her kit on. Locking the door behind her, and hiding the key in a ceramic owl she had in the flower bed, she strode out along the pavement, her feet finding their natural cadence. Running always helped her to think clearly. It soothed out the rough edges and focused her. She could run for miles, just slipping into the rhythm of her stride. Her arm still ached, but the smooth motion of her body almost worked as a massage. She knew the injury wasn't serious, and keeping it moving would actually help the muscles relax. As she reached the river, she began to breathe more deeply, her body adjusting to the exertion. It was a process that had fascinated her in medical school, how the body's metabolism shifts as you run, how it adapts subtly to the various needs. She ran smoothly, her feet light on the pathway and the tension of the day began to unfurl.
As she passed the Cherwell Boathouse, Laura's mind began to wander. It always did as she ran, as if the movement freed her brain from the fog of work. She knew there were good chemical reasons why running helped her think clearly, but it always seemed a little magical. She was thinking about Robbie again. She couldn't quite throw off the niggling doubt in her mind, planted earlier by Hathaway. Maybe he was about to call time on his career. She wouldn't blame him. Robbie had sacrificed more than most to the job. Again, that uneasiness. She would miss him if he left. God, she would miss him. Jesus, she'd have to start going out drinking with Hathaway, just to get over him. She picked up her pace a little, subconsciously running from the thought the moment it started. She never really had got over Lewis, had she? She'd known him for years, more than long enough to know that nothing would ever come of it, but she still loved him. He'd teased her, of course, taken her for the odd drink, but nothing serious. And for a long time that had been absolutely fine. She'd told herself that he was boring, predictable. She was an independent woman, with a love of rock climbing, fine dining, adventures to places far away, gin cocktails and, when the occasion arose, dancing all night with her friends. She loved literature, the theatre, jazz music, art galleries...Robbie Lewis wouldn't fit into her world, the world that she kept so carefully, deliberately separate from her work. He was entirely not her type, she liked men with an edge, a bit of danger. But still. As the years went by, it didn't get any easier.
She crossed the river and began the wide swoop round to Marston, which would eventually take her home. Her legs were starting to tighten a bit, and she slowed a little, taking in the surroundings, trying to relax her shoulders. No, things weren't getting any easier. Work had been awful this past month, and she had missed seeing him on a Friday night. There had been a few occasions in the past few months when they had found themselves alone, just mulling over the details of a case, talking about Lyn and baby, relaxing in each others company. It had been so easy, so entirely normal. Once he'd awkwardly given her a kiss on the cheek as they said good bye. At the time she'd not really thought much of it, but now she regretted the lost moment. In spite of her better judgement and her intentions, she'd fallen in love with him over these last few years. So incrementally it was almost imperceptible. But now she was genuinely scared he would leave and the realisation of what this meant was palpable. There was a bench on the pavement a few yards away, and she sat down heavily, bending at the waist so her head was between her knees. She wasn't dizzy, or unwell...just overwhelmed by her reaction to the depth of her feelings. All this time. She had known it all along, but she hadn't acknowledged how much it meant to her.
It was getting dark, and she needed a shower, so slowly she eased herself into a jog, feeling every stride now as she covered the pavements back to her house. All she wanted was to be home. As she arrived on her drive, and retrieved the keys from the owl, the streetlights were coming on. Within minutes she was under the hot spray, revelling in the warmth across her head and back. As the water pounded on her head, she started to run over the options methodically in her mind...wait, see what happens...move on, nothing will happen that's not already happened...ask him. She reached for the shampoo, scrubbing roughly at her scalp. She'd spent the past decade waiting for him to make a move. But what did it mean? Was he just not interested? Was he waiting too? She rinsed the suds from her hair and silently cursed him for his inability to show his feelings. She'd given him enough clues. But was this really all his fault? If he did feel anything for her...and it was a big if...could he not say exactly the same about her? She had flirted with him for years. It was their light entertainment. She'd never actually been brave enough just to tell him how she felt. Until now, hand on heart, she'd never been entirely convinced she wanted to. What they had just worked. It was simple. What she was contemplating now felt far from simple...