There was a pleasant hum of conversation, the clink of glass, and the thrum of 90's indie pop pitched at just the right level to allow Strike and Robin to hear each other, but still have to lean in to catch the detail.
It had been a long day, no doubt. Strike could feel the skin round his eyes tight with tiredness, but as ever, he found Robin's company a balm to whatever ailed him. He had given up trying to pretend the uplift in his mood when he heard her voice was merely co-incidental and simply caused by the buzz from his pint or the relief of his cigarette.
Wrapping the case, and knowing that all that was left was the tying up of administrative loose ends, was excuse enough to pop to the pub for a drink, and he thought to himself that Robin was good for him, her rosy smile like a vitamin laden satsuma after a diet of junk. He was actually making a very sensible choice for his health, sitting here, three pints in, packet of crisps torn open on the table in front of them, easy familiarity meaning he could justify his shoulder brushing against hers a little more frequently than strictly needed when leaning in to listen to her.
He glanced down at her glass, maybe two mouthfuls left of white wine left, in what he seemed to recall was her third, too. She stopped mid-sentence and followed his eyes.
"Another?" He asked, his eyebrows lifting with the query, and he realized he was pleasantly sozzled, and judging by the flush in her cheeks, and the slow, deliberate nod she gave in response, she was too.
He pushed himself up from the table, and walked to the bar. Ordering another round, he looked back at her, seated on the oxblood leather bench that ran along the length of the wall. She had leaned back, away from the table, resting her head against the slightly overstuffed padding, smiling contentedly, her eyes closed. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight, feeling he'd glimpsed something quite intimate. His mind very nearly pulled him into wondering if that's the look she had after she'd… no, you idiot. Stop it.
The barman asked for money which mercifully distracted Strike and he turned to pay and picked up his pint and the wine glass and returned to his seat.
His usual caution might have taken the opportunity to sit fractionally further away, but as he dropped down on the well padded bench again, the force of his large frame created a very slight bounce, and Robin fell into him a little. She laughed at the silliness, and so did he, and he knew that they really were both level pegging on the tipsy scales.
"I.. I think I'm a bit drunk," he said, with a chuckle, and as soon as he said it, he wondered if he'd thrown it out as insurance.
"Mmm," Robin nodded. "I think we might have earned it, though."
He noticed the oblique acknowledgement that she was drunk too, and he wondered if she had said it for insurance too. In the back of his mind, the warning bell rang, and he knew he was suddenly on precarious ground. He hadn't planned it, but dutch courage was glowing warmly in his belly, and there was a moment of quiet between them as they both took a drink and set their glasses down. They both turned to look at each other at the exact same moment, started, looking back down, and Robin laughed, leaning her head into his shoulder. He was holding himself together with staples and string and the feel of being very aware that her thigh was grazing his, wasn't something he was keen to end. He tried to stay loose and not tense up, and it took quite some effort to do so. She was looking up at him when he turned again, and he acknowledged that he had definitely used the word 'drunk' as insurance.
His greatest fear was fucking this up, losing his best mate, and watching everything they had built dissolve into bitter recrimination. He feared that so much more than being alone, but moments like this, with her face inches from his, beat longing into his heart so honeyed he didn't quite know how he could live without them.
'Drunk' hung there, helpfully. Two colleagues, little bit too much to drink, caught up in the moment; easy to brush off. Two people with lives increasingly intertwined, giving in to feelings so powerful and running so deep they could sweep both of them away in an unstoppable current; not so easy.
Robin had chewed in her lower lip a fraction, and his eyes dipped down to her mouth and back to her eyes, and there was almost a crackle in the space between them. The small, shrinking space between them. Strike had a long second to decide to pull away and tuck the insurance back in his pocket for another time. Too late, he felt Robin's right hand slip up to his neck as she closed the space between them, and pressed her lips against his, and he was so glad he didn't have to overthink as he responded, returning the pressure of her mouth, bringing his own hand up to her face, slipping it around to the back of her head and deepening the contact, sinking into the heat of her mouth, the taste of wine and beer mingling. The sensation was very like falling, and after a minute he pulled back, barely millimetres, to catch his breath, and after a split second of shock on her face, Robin grinned, mischievously, and he returned the lightness, resting his forehead against hers.
"Sorry," she said, thickly. "Probably shouldn't have had that fourth glass."
He smiled ruefully, knowing she was holding out the insurance for him to take if he wanted.
"Yeah," he responded. "We should… be sensible." He was going to take it. But he still held his head against hers, unwilling to relinquish the moment. After all, he didn't know when his next premium was due.