No.7 I've Got You
#7 support, carrying, #12 broken bones
"Push with the crutch and pull with your other arm."
Thwup.
Hop.
"Good. That's it. Again!"
Thwup.
Hop.
"You've got it. Keep going!"
"Oh my God, this is exhausting."
"I know."
"Oh shit, sorry. I know you know, I just…"
"It's fine. Come on! One more. Almost there."
Robin sighs. She takes a deep breath and places her crutch on the next step while sliding her free hand up the handrail and gripping it firmly. The cast on her broken ankle seems to weigh a ton as she lifts her foot higher, making sure she won't bump it against the step. It's only two flights of stairs to their office, but she hasn't even managed the first one, and it feels like a marathon.
"Alright, Robin." Strike's palm is pressed gently against the small of her back. He's behind her, instructing her and ready to brace her in case she stumbles. She can sense his body heat and feel his breath coasting across the back of her neck. "Up you go."
Grunt.
Hop.
"I really don't know how you do it," she gasps, sweating and out of breath. "This is impossible!"
"Hey," Strike answers, and she can almost hear his raised eyebrows behind her back. "It was you who insisted on going back to work! I told you to stay at home and rest your foot in your ground level apartment."
Robin turns as much as she dares to, precariously balanced on the stairs as she is, and glares at him.
"And for how long would that be? My stupid foot will take six weeks to heal, and we're swamped. I can't have you picking up my slack for weeks. We're partners!"
She clutches the handrail a bit harder and let's her foot sink to rest it on the step she's navigating. The break is hurting, and her thigh is trembling. Her neck and shoulder ache. But she pulls herself together and, snorting angrily, vanquishes another step.
Thwup.
Hop.
Behind her, Strike mumbles something about the possibilities of remote working and how Robin might look a bit conspicuous tailing their marks on crutches, and she feels that she's about to snap at him for no other reason than the fact that he's right. She bites her lip and rotates her burning shoulder.
"Sore?" He sounds kind and understanding all of a sudden, and it deflates her. How often has Strike navigated these stairs on crutches? How much strength and self-discipline must it take to manage his disability every day?
"Yeah," she admits, cranking her neck.
"You know I could just ca-"
"You're NOT going to carry me!" She interrupts him, twisting to look at him, taken a little aback by how close those green eyes are. "You're going to bust up your knee, or we'll both fall or-"
He shuts her up by reaching behind her back and hoisting her up into his arms. Just like that. Once more, Robin is reminded of his upper body strength and of the fact that he's had years of practice living with an artificial leg. He grunts a little, and from the way his mouth tightens she can tell that this maneuver is putting considerable strain on Strike's prosthetic leg. But she also sees the determined set of his jaw.
"Cormoran," she exclaims. "What on earth are you doing?! You're gonna-"
"Shut it, Ellacott," he replies with pretend gruffness and, with less difficulty than expected, begins to climb the stairs, carrying her in his arms. "We won't get any work done buggering about in the staircase. You said it yourself: we've got cases lining up, and I can't do it all on my own."
He's breathing heavily now, his smoker's lungs struggling as much as his leg's got to be. His climb is uneven; he sets his good leg on each step first, and Robin can tell that not being able to pull himself along by the handrail makes it much harder. But they're almost at the top now and, frankly, scooted up against Strike's broad chest and shoulder, his smell everywhere, isn't the worst position she's found herself in recently, so she keeps her mouth shut and concentrates on not letting the crutch dangling from her hand get in the way.
To her surprise, Strike doesn't put her down when they've arrived but pushes through the door and, to Pat's and Barclay's eyebrow-arched astonishment gallantly sets her down on the farting sofa which - not so gallantly - farts.
Flustered, Robin drops the crutch behind the sofa and runs her hand through her hair. Strike straightens and wipes his sleeve across his brow.
"What?!" He snaps at his still-staring colleagues.
Pat coughs and Barclay, emitting an ambiguous Scottish noise, refocuses on the file in his lap.
"You okay?"
Strike catches Robin's eyes with that scrutinizing, shockingly gentle gaze that he pulls up whenever it throws her most. It does now, too, and she looks away to rearrange her injured foot on the sofa. Although Pat's typing has resumed, she can feel her observing them over the rim of her reading glasses.
"Yeah," she says, breathlessly, although it's been him carrying her and not the other way around. "Yeah, thanks."
Strike nods formally.
"I'll go fetch your other crutch before that idiot of a graphic designer trips over it."
And then he strides out the office door, his uneven gait a little worse for wear, and for the first time since breaking her ankle Robin isn't quite as mad that it happened.