A/N - I seem to be on a bit of a crazy roll with Silk stories currently, so here is another offering. I'm not sure if this one will be any longer than this - it would be great if you let me know what you think!
Enjoy! x

Martha tapped a pen against her lip, chewing the end of the biro absentmindedly as she considered the file in front of her.

"What happened?" Clive asked, pausing at her desk as he crossed the room.

"Hmm?" She looked up, "Sorry, what?"

"Your wrist," he indicated, "What happened?"

A gauzy white pad was taped to the inside of her left wrist, her silver watch was absent.

"Oh, nothing much," Martha flicked said wrist, "Just a burn. You know I'm awful in the kitchen".

He smiled, she was right, "Fair enough. Is it ok? Not getting nasty or anything?"

"It's fine," she nodded at him, "Cold water, cream and keeping it covered. I think I can look after it".

Clive sat down at his desk, "Just checking".

It was a routine they had fallen into; Friday evening drinks after the others had left, staying in the pub together, a little bubble of their own. No interruptions, no colleagues. Sometimes it was talking about work, buoying each other up or celebrating, sometimes it was about everything else and sometimes it was just quiet companionship.

They sat side by side, he had moved next to her after CW and Billy had left, slightly squashed together in the narrow corner booth.
As she picked up her glass he noticed her watch slip slightly down her arm beneath her sleeve and reveal a patch of skin covered by a rectangular plaster.
"How's the burn?" He asked.
Martha looked away before answering, "Oh, yeah. Uh, it's fine, thanks".
He caught a pink tinge rise up her cheeks when she spoke, noticed how she couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Really? Let me see".
She kept hold of the wine glass, resting it against her cheek so her hand wasn't on the table, "So you're a doctor now, are you?"
He rolled his eyes, "Don't be stupid Mar. I only want to see it. You've had something stuck over it for ages".

Very slowly she took another drink, put her glass down on the table and held her arm out, wrist facing down.
He reached for her, intrigued and slightly concerned, and brushed her fingers with the tips of his before reaching for her cuff. Carefully he undid the buttons on her cuff and folded back the starched, white material. Holding her fingers, he turned her hand over and undid the clasp on her watch, letting it drop into his other hand before placing it on the table.
His thumb brushed over the plaster and he gently touched one fingernail to the edge.
She flinched as he did so and he stopped to look up at her. There was a strange expression on her face; apprehension, maybe guilt and a flicker of something he couldn't place. Her teeth had caught on her lower lip and she couldn't quite meet his gaze.
As his fingers resumed their gentle picking at the edge of the plaster, she spoke, quietly but forcefully, "Don't...don't judge".
Clive nodded but didn't speak.

Martha winced as the plaster slowly lifted from the delicate skin. He was gentle but it was going to hurt a little.
As he carefully peeled the fabric plaster away he waited for the burn to appear. He almost expected a different injury.
What he didn't expect was something black. Glistening, italic black letters standing out against her pale skin. For a moment he stared, eyes drawn to the script, then looked to her face.
Her gaze was fixed on her wrist, as though she was looking at it for the first time. The letters were small, each one about the size of his thumbnail, with a tiny dot after each one. Perfectly italic, the tails faded away from the thicker main lines on the two letters.

Q.C.

Clive still held her hand; his fingers underneath the back, thumb resting in her palm, and lifted it towards him. He bent his head and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
"It's perfect Marth".
She smiled then, and he repeated the action before looking at her. She met his gaze and held it. He wanted to ask her about it; when, where, who with, why did she lie, why did she hide it? He knew he couldn't jump straight in, she had been reluctant enough to show him anyway, and instead said, "What are you up to this weekend then?"

There was a pause before she answered, a heavy silence that meant something but he couldn't decipher quite what. He was still holding her hand; knew that that, and his previous action meant something.
"Recovering".
"Recovering from what?" He asked, the question was innocent enough.
"From the amount of wine you buy me tonight. And whatever we do after that," Martha replied.
Her meaning was clear.

She pulled her hand from his and picked up her glass, draining the liquid and replacing it on the table.
"Well?" She raised an eyebrow, "You playing?"
He swallowed. Half their relationship was built on flirting, sometimes spilling over into more, but it was usually him who pushed the boundaries.
"Playing for what?"
Her eyebrow dropped, smile disappeared, she didn't often look so serious outside of work, "For keeps".

For a moment he considered her, what she had said and what she meant. To him, she was easy to read, easy to understand, it was a talent he had perfected over fifteen years. She had never taken it this far before and he had never known her say something she didn't completely mean or believe.

"I'm in," he answered, shifting and taking his wallet from his pocket, "For the long run".
He pushed his wallet towards her and nodded towards the bar.
Martha took the item and flipped it open. She made it look as though it was natural, as though it was partly hers, he thought. This wasn't mad, Clive realised, this was exactly what came next. It wasn't playing, it was keeps that was the point of the game, and they had been playing long enough.
She slid a card from his wallet and looked at him, questioning in silence as she ran a finger over the edges.
One shoulder, up and down, "Whatever you want," he said.
She slipped down the bench and stood up, moving through the crowds with practised ease.
His eyes followed her. She was wearing stilettos.

Two fresh glasses and a bottle of red appeared in his vision, a body in the space next to him.
Slightly surprised she hadn't picked something stronger, he turned the bottle to read the label. It was something they didn't drink often, usually reserved for celebrations.
"I started a tab," she said as she dropped back into the seat next to him.
He nodded, poured the wine and touched his glass to hers, "For keeps".
Martha smiled and sipped the wine, then turned so she was half facing him in their booth, "Go on then, I know you want to ask".
She could read him as easily as he could her, but she still forced him to say things aloud. He usually answered her questions without her saying anything.

"Did you do it on a whim?" He wanted to know, she had never been the impulsive type.
She shook her head, "No. It was there in my mind, I just needed a shove to make me do it. I was out for lunch with Lindsey, and she was just like, go for it. She came with me. It was last Saturday. It seems like it's been there forever, but also like it was yesterday".
He smiled, "Who knew, Martha Costello, secret tattoo rebel".
She laughed as he tugged at the collar of her shirt.
"What else does the white shirt hide then?" he joked, fingers running down from her collar to the next button that was done up.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Martha teased with a grin.
He hummed, twitched his fingers to undo the button he was hovering over, "I think I would".

If he was surprised by her open flirting he didnt one to make light of her feelings. He had never been sure how she really felt about him, was aware that he had never really shown her his feelings either. There was flirting, teasing, friendship, care and respect on both sides, they both made that obvious, but there was something deeper and now she had shown him, he was happy to respond.