Chapter Text
"From what I see…" Ilsa said, smoothing the crumpled papers between her fingers, trying to remove any semblance of seriousness. "It looks pretty legal to me."
Her gaze rose steadily to the two in front of her.
Robin and Strike were squeezed side by side on the narrow bench in the small café near the law firm where their friend worked. The table seemed too small for two people to sit like that. They avoided each other's eyes, like children caught red-handed in front of their teacher, or in this case, their lawyer and friend, Ilsa Herbert.
"What?" Robin asked when Ilsa's gaze lingered on her.
"I can't believe I wasn't your maid of honor." Ilsa dropped the marriage license on the table with a theatrical sigh. The paper, with its official, cold writing, seemed even more absurd in contrast to the hands of a seasoned lawyer wearing a real wedding ring. "I always knew you'd end up together, it's not fair."
Strike snorted, rolling his eyes as he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth. The hot liquid burned his tongue, but it was a welcome nuisance in the face of the greater discomfort.
"For fuck's sake…" he muttered, too softly.
Robin, without hesitation, nudged him in the ribs with her elbow, eliciting a muffled groan from him.
"Can we annul it?" Robin blurted suddenly, her voice firm, but the flush on her cheeks betrayed her.
Ilsa's eyes widened. "You're barely married and you already want a divorce?"
"It's not a divorce… and it wasn't even a marriage," Robin countered quickly, casting a furtive glance at Strike. "It was… a decision made in the throes of alcoholism. That's not how things work." She braced her hands on the table. "Tell her, Cormoran."
Strike cleared his throat. The coffee seemed to turn even more bitter. "Hmm… yeah, what she said."
The vague answer made him look like a man who accepted defeat before even fighting. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was Monday morning, less than twenty-four hours since they'd woken up together, married, with their clothes strewn across the floor and cheap rings on their fingers. Neither of them had had the courage to talk about it seriously since then, just a few hastily exchanged messages filled with "it was irrational," "we need to think about it," and "let's not freak out now."
Ilsa pushed the papers back to them.
"Well… the quickest way would be for both of you to declare the marriage unconsummated, but…"
She didn't need to finish. The silence that fell over the table spoke for them.
Robin bit her lip, looking away to the window. Strike, for his part, stared at his coffee as if he could drown his embarrassment there.
The lawyer raised an eyebrow, understanding everything and enjoying her friends' embarrassment a little.
Strike considered denying it, but the memory of Saturday night hit him hard. The heat, the nervous laughter, the kisses that had become inevitable, the repeated, almost desperate surrender.
At least three times, he remembered, with a pang of idiotic pride that almost made his lips curl.
Robin, however, seemed hunched over in her seat, as if the whole world could hear her thoughts. Shame tinged her face.
"So…" Ilsa said, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze flickering between them, a knowing smile on her lips. "I suppose the simplest option isn't available."
Strike shifted again, his broad shoulders shuffling as if his clothes were too tight. Finally, he spoke, his voice deep and slow:
"I don't want to cancel anything."
Robin stared at him in surprise. Her heart leaped in her chest, but her expression hardened almost immediately.
"Cormoran…" she said, her tone low, almost wounded. "This isn't a decision we make like that. It's not… it's not real."
"It isn't?" he retorted, turning to her with a firm gaze. "Because the last thing I remember is you asking me to marry you and us saying yes in front of an official hours later."
And we're still wearing our rings, he wanted to add, but changed his mind at the last minute. He didn't want her to realize it and take the ring off her finger.
Her face flushed even deeper. "I was drunk."
"Maybe." His tone softened when he heard the vulnerability in her voice. "But I wasn't so drunk that I didn't know what I wanted."
There was a heavy silence. Ilsa, realizing she'd become a spectator to something too intimate, excused herself to go to the bathroom.
"We haven't even talked about what happened, Robin," he finally said. There was a hint of sadness in his tone that made Robin grab his hand under the table.
"Hey, I don't want to undo everything that happened," she assured him. "I just don't want anything to happen artificially. Did I give you the impression I'm running away again?"
"No," he replied promptly.
And it was true. Even when she'd rushed out of his apartment the previous morning, She gave him a kiss long enough that it almost led to something more, if it weren't for the surveillance she would assume shortly afterward.
"I don't expect you to turn into Mrs. Strike and suddenly start house-hunting with me," he continued, trying to justify himself. "I just don't want such a beautiful night to be reduced to a drunken choice and regrets."
Robin turned to face him in the seat, almost pressing herself against the wall behind her.
"I don't regret anything we did after that, Cormoran." She squeezed his hand. "I just want to do everything in its own time. I don't want to look back in a few years and see that I barely remember my marriage to the man I love."
That brought a smile to his face. He would never tire of hearing Robin declare her love.
"Let's see what Ilsa has to say about this and how we proceed," he said finally. There was some reason behind her decision, "but until then, don't blame me for liking calling you wife a little."
It was Robin's turn to smile.
"And I might be liking calling you husband a little."