Chapter Twenty-one

With their gruelling workload, and preparing for the move in her spare time, Robin isn't even sure what day it is when she wakes in her bed to Strike squirming as he mutters, "Fuck."

"Strike?"

"Sorry, but my fucking foot is itchy."

About to ask why he doesn't just scratch it, she then realises, "Your missing foot?"

"Of course my missing foot. Fuck."

She's heard about this. "Is that 'phantom limb' or some such thing?"

"Close enough. God, I hate this; makes me want to scratch the skin off my stump."

He's never complained about it before. In fact, he rarely complains about any physical discomfort, so it must be bad. "Does it happen often?"

"Not nowadays. I used to get all kinds of sensation just after it happened, mostly excruciating pain."

Strike has never been one to easily tolerate sympathy, but that sounds horrific, and Robin feels compelled to offer, "Can I do anything?"

"No, I just have to ride it out. Fuck."

Desperate to help, Robin presumes that he would have tried apparent solutions like scratching his remaining foot, and probably wouldn't appreciate her suggestions anyway in his current mood. Without a word, she gets out of bed, aware of his gaze following her, and then she stands at the foot of the bed, entirely naked, and stretches her hands high above her head. Recognising it as an invitation, Strike throws off the bed covers and clambers towards her, but she backs out of reach and moves to her side of the bed. Grinning, Strike crawls in that direction, only to groan as she again evades him, racing around to the other side. And he grumbles, "You do realise that you're tormenting a crippled war hero right now."

She dances, twirling just out of reach, saying, "No, I'm attempting to distract a crippled war hero. Is it working?"

Failing to contain his smile, Strike suggests, "Maybe if you dance a little closer?"

An patently transparent ploy, but since Robin's goal is to end up having sex with him, she smiles and complies. And a hand closes around her left wrist as he crows, "Gotcha!"

Delighted that it's working so well, Robin laughs and says, "Yes, you do. Now, what are you going to do with me?"

Without releasing her, Strike gets to his knees and hauls Robin with him back onto the bed, where he promises, "I'm going to fuck you until we don't know which way is up."

Robin laughs from pure delight, and says, "Certainly sounds distracting. And will your missing foot be itchy again tomorrow morning?"

He pretends to give it some thought, eventually saying, "Not beyond the realms of possibility."

As his soft lips close over one hard nipple, Robin breathes a shaky sigh, and says, "Excellent."

When the world is again right side up, and Robin is nestled against Strike's chest, idly toying with the curly carpet of hair while his fingertips tracing random patterns over her back, and she comments, "You've never called yourself that before."

At first thinking she means "cripple", he's about to correct her—he's never shied away from that term—when he realises, "War hero?"

"Yeah."

"Because the medal is bullshit." With a soft chuckle, he adds, "Unless I'm angling for a pity shag."

Robin lifts her head only long enough to glare at him, insisting, "You know very well that wasn't pity." And then she's slightly subdued to ask, "Why is it bullshit?"

"Because a mate was in real trouble, in a place where bullets were flying, so of course I got shot hauling his sorry arse to safety. Believe me, if anyone else had put their hand up for the task, I'd have happily kept my head down instead." When Robin says nothing, he asks, "You don't believe me?"

"You put yourself in that place where the bullets were flying."

"Technically, I was deployed there."

"You know what I mean; you volunteered. I refuse to believe it was because you like killing."

Strike cradles her to him, offering and seeking comfort when he says, "No, I don't. Fortunately, my career arc steered me away from racking up much of a kill count. And, no, I don't ever want to discuss what it feels like to take a life."

Robin kisses his chest, and promises, "I assumed so." And then she asks, "Did you keep the medal?"

Worried that it makes a liar of him, Strike hesitates before revealing, "It's somewhere in one of the boxes I've never unpacked. Why this line of questioning?"

Robin shrugs, and says, "Just curious. We're talking about getting married, and it seems like there's still a lot I don't know about you."

She doesn't sound afraid, so he's not very worried when he suggests, "But you know enough. Fuck, you probably know me better than anyone currently living." Strike doesn't add "Except Ted, and he can't remember," because the old man's dementia is quite frankly too distressing to discuss, even with Robin.

"Not Lucy or Ilsa?"

"I love them both, but they've spent too long trying to mould me to ever really know me." When, after a moment, Robin laughs a little, he asks, "What is it?"

She lifts herself up onto one elbow, and explains, "I just realised, they've been nagging you for decades to settle down, and I've seemingly achieved it by never nagging you at all."

He grins, and jokes, "You haven't achieved it yet. And you knew exactly what you were doing; all that cunning 'Whatever you want is fine by me' crap. You must have known it would make me follow you around with my tongue hanging out, desperate to be whatever you need."

With a comical shrug, Robin quips, "You got me." And then she sits up, saying, "Come on, Hero, we've got work to do."

Reaching for his prosthesis, Strike grumbles, "I'm not too keen on that moniker."

"Everyone else has a nickname for you, why not me?"

Nothing about her suggests that she's upset, so Strike merely says, "Not that one."

"Because it's bullshit; because, when a mate was in trouble, it didn't even feel like a choice to help him, no matter the danger to you?"

She's studying him very intently, and he's wondering what he's agreeing to when he warily confirms, "Yes."

Robin nods, and says, "So you won't freak out next time I risk myself for a child?"

Ah. Trusting her not to resent him for it, Strike confesses, "I think you know that I'll always freak out about you risking yourself, because I love you. I'm beginning to think that I've always loved you." Smiling at memories, he adds, "Ever since I first noticed your fire."

Fascinated, he watches Robin's expressive face morph through surprise, love, amusement, stubborn resistance and then back to love. And she says, "Well, I guess we'll just have to live with that, won't we, Oxford?"

At least it's better than 'Hero'. "Because it reminds you that I sometimes get embarrassed around you?"

Robin smiles, and reveals, "Because no one has ever mentioned how your vocabulary improves, so I suspect that you're rarely embarrassed with anyone except me, and I like this reminder that I'm special to you."

With such an argument, he can't bring himself to protest, and obliges, "Okay. 'Oxford' it is."

The next evening, Strike is playing host to Robin. As he stirs their dinner, she asks, "So, what are we having? It smells good."

Without looking up, he reveals, "Sweet potato, spinach and lentil dahl."

"What meat?"

"No meat." The resulting silence stretches on for so long that he looks around, to see wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock. Realising why, he says, "You've seen me eat a meatless meal before."

Closing her mouth, Robin says, "Maybe chips."

Scanning his memory, Strike soon says, "St. Stephen's Tavern, after we'd been to Scotland Yard. You made me eat a veggie burger."

"Like I could make you do anything." Remembering now, Robin adds, "And you whinged that I hadn't ordered any chips, because you could have nicked them." When he only shrugs, because it's true, she says, "You really are serious about this health kick, aren't you?"

It's close enough to the truth that he doesn't hesitate to reveal, "It started because of my knee rightly giving up on me last year. But now, I intend to outlive you, because I know you couldn't cope without me."

Love in her voice, Robin corrects him, "You intend to live long enough that we can raise our child together."

The alternative is scary enough that he hesitates a fraction before replying, "Yes."

"A child we don't yet have."

Fair point. "Maybe I'm happy, and want to keep being happy?"

Moving slow enough to avoid accidents, Robin slips her arms around Strike's waist from behind, and leans her head against his back, to vow, "I love you, Oxford."

He's definitely warming to that nickname. He hasn't yet thought of a reply—and maybe none is needed—when his phone starts ringing, and he instructs, "You get the dahl, I'll get the phone."

She's already releasing him, and accepts the spoon, saying, "Yessir."

He answers the phone with his noncommittal, "Strike." But then Robin detects something of concern in his voice when he says, "Now is fine." So she's looking at him when he mouths "Murphy" before heading into his bedroom.

Her heart beating loud in her ears, the indistinct sound of Strike's side of the conversation over that, Robin really does try to focus on her assigned task. Only when she smells burning, does she notice that she's failed. "Shit." Lifting the saucepan even as she turns off the hob, she moves the disaster to the sink, and lets cold water run down the outside while scraping the congealed bottom of the casserole with the wooden spoon. Fortunately, it appears salvageable. She hears Strike returning before she's finished, and apologises, "Not sure this will prove to be a fair example of meat-free cooking."

"I'll do that. He wants a word."

She turns to see that he's offering her his phone, which is clearly mid-call. "Uh, okay." They manage the handover without dropping anything, and Robin lifts the phone to her ear, saying, "Ryan?"

Strike is waving her away, apparently intent on ensuring privacy, so she's heading into his bedroom when Ryan asks, "This okay?"

Dizzy with too much emotion, Robin sits on the bed to assure him, "Yeah, it's fine, just burning our dinner is all." And immediately regrets describing such a domestic scene.

They're quiet for a few seconds, and then both speak at the same time, prompting mutual laughter, and Ryan insists, "You first."

Taking a deep breath, Robin explains, "I was just going to say that...I never intended to hurt you. You're a_"

"Oh, God, please don't say I'm a 'nice guy'. They're famous for missing out."

Robin laughs and insists, "Well, you are nice. But, no, I was going to say that you're a good man, and deserve a woman who knows that. I just couldn't be her. I'm sorry."

"No, it's my own fault. On some level I knew you didn't really love me, but...anyway. And I'm really sorry about grabbing you. I hope you know that there was no intention behind that other than...I guess that I wanted an explanation."

Glad for the opening, Robin explains, "Whatever you saw in my eyes, it wasn't about you. You'd inadvertently grabbed_"

"Fuck, your scar. I'm an idiot. I thought...fuck, I dunno what I thought."

Incredible relieved that it's going so well, Robin suggests, "Personally, I'd be happy to pretend it never happened."

"Okay, thanks. And I have to go."

"Oh, all right. Well, thanks for being so understanding, and I really do wish you all the best."

"Yeah, same. Bye for now."

"Yeah, b..." But he's already gone.

Robin takes a moment to compose herself before joining Strike, who has set the table and served the food. When she hands over his phone, he asks, "Okay?"

She shrugs, and reveals, "I still feel bad about how I treated him, but not as much, thank you." Gesturing to the meal, she sits down to eat, adding, "And thanks for this."

"My pleasure." They eat in silence for several seconds, and then Strike says, "Not going to ask what he wanted?"

"I thought...it wasn't to check if I wanted to speak with him?"

"No, I did that when we spoke in person, as per your request."

Heartrate again soaring, Robin guesses, "He found the herensuge?"

"Not yet, but he's part of the international taskforce, and will probably get a promotion out of it. That's why the unfamiliar phone number; he's being appropriately cautious. This was about the tracker. It was paid for by a credit card linked to one of Patterson's expense accounts, bought before he was rather effectively put out business when he was arrested for bugging Holborn."

"Patterson did this?"

"Maybe. Murph would need a warrant to find out more, but we have a theory."

Noticing the "Murph" and the "we" Robin wanders if perhaps the two men have shed their mutual resentment, which pleases her. And she asks, "Someone who worked for him?"

"Farah Navabi, the one who planted the bug. She was detained and released without charge, but I imagine she's finding it very hard to get work. If you remember, she even tried us. And Pat said she's called twice since, presumably still looking for a job. I haven't returned her calls."

Robin knows him well enough to observe, "You don't like her."

"No. It wasn't that she deliberately fucked up a case I was on, presumably on Patterson's orders. Or that she outwitted Honbold to bug his office. It was the fact that she so clearly enjoyed it. And I don't mean the way we love this job, but more that she's addicted to the thrill, or gets a genuine kick out of fucking with people...maybe both. I had to describe her, because she'd once again used an alias, but Navabi approached Murphy for a drink, right after you broke up with him, even dropped your name." Correctly interpreting the reason for Robin's alarm, Strike smiles and says, "Don't worry; he hasn't fallen off the wagon. And wasn't in the mood anyway. But the encounter supports my theory that maybe she's been doing the rounds of people who have reason to resent us, including cops. I asked Murphy to see what he could find out."

"And?"

Strike grins and explains, "He said, unless we want to make an official complaint about the tracker, the rest is up to us-and he stressed the word—detectives."

Robin laughs, saying, "I guess that's fair enough. I hope you thanked him?"

"Better. I owe him one."

Robin smiles, and says, "Actually, you owe him two." Strike looks at her in question, and she explains, "I told you Matt wasn't very exciting in bed, at least not with me; he's a bit wham-bam-thankyou-ma'am. But Ryan...I learned a lot from him." When this predictably puts a scowl on Strike's face, and he glowers into his now lukewarm dinner, Robin can't tolerate torturing him for more a few seconds. "But not as much as I'm learning from you."

He looks up, a smile dawning across his face, that Robin instinctively mirrors. And then he jabs the air between them with his fork, crowing, "I knew I was better than Murph."

Robin laughs because she's too happy not to, and then instructs, "Yes, you're a stud, now eat your lentil stew."

"Yes, boss."