A/N: Thanks everyone for your lovely comments! I'm desperately trying to write and post a whumptober ficlet every day, and it doesn't leave me with enough time to respond to everyone's reviews, but please know that they're all so much appreciated! I'll get back to each one of you when this crazy month is over!
No.22 Do These Tacos Look Funny To You?
Prompt: #22 poisoned
Robin hesitates at the door to Strike's flat, but then she decides to knock. After all, he hasn't shown up for work, and he hasn't answered his phone, but she's heard noises from upstairs. Something isn't right. It takes forever, but finally she hears Strike approach in his custom hop-step. It is not a good sign when he's not wearing his prosthesis in the middle of the day.
The old lock rattles open from inside, then the door opens a crack. Strike's face appears in it, and he looks horrible: deathly pale, clammy, hair sticking up in places. What she can see of him is dressed in an old t-shirt and boxers.
"Robin," he says in a weak voice, wiping a hand across his face. "Sorry. I should've let you know. Not feeling so well today."
She grimaces. "I can see that. What's going on?"
Not long ago, it would've been a question too private to ask. Particularly when "not feeling well" might have involved Strike's leg. But it's clearly not his leg this time, and, after all, they've seen each other through panic attacks and wrenched knees and too much alcohol in the meantime, and that particular barrier has fallen.
"Food poisoning," Strike groans, rubbing his stomach. "I had take-out with Nick and Ilsa last night. They have it too."
"Ugh." Robin pulls a face. "Sounds horrible. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?"
Strike opens his mouth and starts to form a "no", but then he seems to reconsider.
"Actually, yes," he says, sounding embarrassed. "I've been puking my guts out, and I could use something for the nausea. If you don't mind, could you…?"
"On it," Robin replies, and she has to push down a feeling of inappropriate joy. It's an immense step for Cormoran to let someone help him, even when it's about such a small thing as running to the pharmacy to fetch him some pills. "I'll go and get you something. Go back to bed. I won't be a minute!"
"Thanks, Robin." He nods, in that shy, boyish way he has when he feels insecure. It's rare, and it always makes Robin blush. "I wouldn't ask you to if-"
"It's fine. Really." She is already turning to leave. "I'll be quick."
XXX
Fifteen minutes later Robin is back at Denmark Street with two bags of shopping. When Cormoran opens the door - in an old blue bathrobe now, otherwise not looking any better - she holds the bags up with a nervous smile.
"I got you a few things. Let me in? You can't carry these, so… I'll just put them where you need them and get out of your hair."
Strike is too astounded and possibly too sick to object. He lets her pass, and Robin strides in, ignoring the faint smell of vomit from the tiny bathroom, and dumps the bags onto Strike's small kitchen table.
"Medication," she starts, pulling several items from the pharmacy bag and showing the labels to Strike as she puts them down. "For nausea, diarrhea, fever. And I got you an electrolyte powder to mix into water."
Strike, closing the door behind him, stares at her in bleary wonder.
From the second bag, Robin retrieves crackers, pretzel sticks, toast, white rice, bananas, tea and ginger ale.
"Once you can keep down fluids, start with the crackers and build up from there. It's Linda Ellacott's patented stomach flu diet. Works on food poisoning as well."
Robin shrugs, cheeks pink, and gives Strike an uplifting, somewhat awkward grin. She has a feeling she may be overstepping, but she can't help it. If Nick and Ilsa are ill as well, there's no one Robin knows of that Strike will turn to for help, and the thought of him living on a diet of pain killers, pizza and tap water until he feels better makes her cringe. She'd rather he be mad at her than dehydrated and miserable in his flat.
Strike hops the three steps to his bed and sinks down with a groan. He clutches his stomach, eyes pinching closed as a cramp comes and goes. When he opens his eyes again, he looks embarrassed, lost - and grateful.
"Robin. I don't know what to say."
She smiles in relief. "'Thanks' would be good enough."
He nods, the hint of a smile on his ashen face. "Thanks. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
It's one of those moments again. One of those where the distance between them seems to close without warning while, at the same time, red lights flash. He looks so vulnerable, so big and soft. She has her heart in her throat and on her tongue. A minute ticks by. The moment passes.
"Anything else I can do for you?" Robin looks around the room, needing to look somewhere else, anywhere but into those glazed green eyes.
"Yeah," Strike says hoarsely.
Anything, Robin thinks.
"What?" she says.
Cormoran smirks crookedly. "You can go and leave me a bit of dignity while I retreat to the bathroom."
"Oh!" She hurries to the door. "You have to-"
"No!" He holds up a hand. "No, shit, not yet." A faint blush creeps into his pale cheeks. "But I'm definitely gonna have to. And as much as I appreciate everything you just did for me, I'd really prefer to be alone for that part."
Robin chuckles, nervous, but understanding entirely what he means.
"Alright," she says, daring to meet his gaze again. "Then I'll leave you to it." She turns the doorknob. "Call me if you need anything. I'll be in the office until six, but you can call me anytime."
"Thanks."
Why is it so hard to leave Strike like this - looking and smelling terribly, sitting hunched over between his ridiculous floral sheets with only one leg and in a threadbare bathrobe?
It is hard to go. But she does.
Robin walks out the door and pulls it closed behind her, hearing Strike release a groan that she's sure he's held inside until she was gone. An hour or so from now, she knows she'll want to sneak back up to check on him, but she won't. She crossed a line today, and he let her, and she respects him too much to push it. She'll leave the checking on him for next time.