Counter Culture Blues

I like spiky Robson in the first half of this episode. It speaks of something beyond the professional. But they must have made up somehow, so why not this way ;-)

Everything was cold. The air, the metal surfaces, the body lying between them, his mood. He was done with this case, the memories it had brought to the fore, the way it had ripped open wounds he thought were healing. Seeing Esme Ford in the flesh had been a revelation and reignited long forgotten fantasies of smoky filled rooms, hard liquor and long-hair beauties. A teenage dream fulfilled. How brutal the reality; three dead bodies with no obvious way to link them all together. It was perplexing and frustrating,and he was done with all of it, with all of them

But he wasn't really, of course he wasn't. Far from it. And he wouldn't be until he has all the answers, however out of reach they felt right now. But he'd get there, for Val if no one else. Because after all that happened he was damned if he was going to let a bunch of aged rockers mess with the memory of a perfect evening, when thoughts of everything and everyone else had slipped away and he'd met the girl that would be the start of the life he'd always wanted.

The sound of his name dragged him from his reverie, his eyes rising from somewhere near his feet to meet the wide eyed expectancy of Laura Hobson. That he'd missed something was obvious, what it was less so.

"You ok?" she asked, her voice dropping a tone.

He managed to show that he was, smiling encouragingly at the clipboard in her hand, giving silent permission for her to carry on. But he barely heard a word as she shared her finding on Samantha Wheeler's post mortem. Her voice was a swirling melody that seemed to calm and soothe the thoughts in his head that seemed determined to take control, but that didn't mean he could take anything in. His head felt thick and fuzzy with it all. Val. The music. The dancing. The beginning of things. Her touch. The love. The loss. The grief. Laura.

Laura! His mind snapped back to the woman in front of him and he demanded his brain to focus.

"It was quick and efficient and, on the surface at least, they knew how to cover their tracks."

Robbie nodded sagely. She wasn't really telling anything he didn't already know. He asked a few questions and they were dealt with in the manner he'd come to expect, expertly but with an understanding that he didn't want all the medical lingo that some of her counterparts insisted on using.

"It's not much," he said, half to himself, the cogs already whirring as to his next steps.

"Well, I'm sorry," she said in a withering tone, "If we find anything else, you'll be the first to know."

He acknowledged this with raised eyes and made to leave, but stopped himself and instead took half a step towards her.

"I'm sorry about the other day," he began, "You know, at the gates. Things on me mind, you know."

She threw him one of her unflinching stares, the kind under which a lesser man might crumble. But he reckoned he was made of sterner stuff, if only because he knew what others didn't; that beyond those piercing icy blue eyes was a mind that missed nothing, influenced by a heart that cared deeply for those around her. He reckoned he was just about in that circle, by hair's breadth, and it made him brave. Foolish and brave. And so he held her gaze and waited with some like hope, yet his surprise was genuine when at last she voiced her forgiveness.

"Really?"

"Robbie," she said softly, closing the gap between them, "Hathaway might be rubbish at maths. I, on the other hand, excel at it."

"It was all a long time ago," he explained, "A lifetime."

"Her lifetime," Laura added, and he gave a small nod in confirmation.

"I thought it was getting better, the pain. But this case has brought it all back. The memories I have and can't share."

She didn't respond to that, but reached out a hand to touch his arm, a small gesture of understanding.

"You can share them with me," she offered, quietly. "If it would help. Over a coffee. Or something stronger."

She paused as her finger rubbed against his shirt, just briefly and with a touch so light he wouldn't have even felt it if he hadn't been watching. But it was fleeting. She tucked her hair behind her ear and clutched the clipboard to her chest, an unconsciously placed shield. He could almost see the next line forming on her lips, her head tilting to the side in consideration of whether she was going to say it. Experience told him it could go either way.

"I mean, I'll need a point of historical reference obviously. Ballpark the decade. Pre war, post war..."

"Yes, alright," he admonished smartly, but his own lips curled up into a smile to match hers and he felt his mood lighten, just a little.

"So, you'll let me know?" his eyes darting down to the body.

"Of course," she confirmed, the briefest pause before adding, "And you'll let me know about that drink?"

He didn't answer and instead offered an appreciative nod that he hoped would be enough. It wasn't that he didn't want to. He enjoyed Laura's company, a lot in fact. But it was too much right now. Maybe when the case was over. Maybe.