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---------- 5. Arse ----------
“The law is an arse and so are you!”
Jack doesn’t even look up from the report he is reading, and that only serves to infuriate her further.
“And good morning to you too,” he answers dryly, eyes still moving briskly across the page.
“What were you thinking?” she demands, placing a hand over the page he is perusing and sliding it across the desk to ensure his full attention.
Jack finally deigns to look up. “Currently? That my life would be a lot simpler if I’d merely locked that lavatory door from the outside and permanently lost the key.”
Phryne falls into the seat opposite him with a scowl and an accusation. “You know what I mean.”
Jack folds his hands across his stomach and leans back in his chair. “Enlighten me.”
“I got a call from Charlie Freeman very early this morning. From the City Central jail. Apparently he’d been picked up in a raid — the legality of which felt suspect even from Wardlow — of a bookstore that sold indecent materials. So of course I promised to help.”
“Of course.”
“But when I arrived at City Central this morning with my solicitor to secure his release, they said he was gone.”
“How fortunate.”
Phryne narrows her eyes and continues.
“They said he’d been released to you. For, and I quote,” and now she hits each word like a prize fighter, “further, and sustained, questioning.”
Jack nods. “And so he was. Took a hell of a lot of paperwork to approve the transfer, I can tell you. I still have the cramp in my hand to prove it.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Phryne leans forward. “Then I demand you let me see him.”
Jack mirrors the action, leaning in himself. “Unfortunately, he’s not here.”
Phryne frowns. “What? Where is he, then?”
Jack raises an eyebrow and picks up his pen. “Well, since you asked so nicely,” he drawls, “he’s out fulfilling our agreement.”
“What agreement?” Phryne asks suspiciously.
“Charlie is now my confidential informant.” Jack holds up a hand to stop what he knows is about to be an indignant protest. “Not on the indecent materials case. Or anything else to do with his… friends.”
“Then what?” she demands.
“I’m afraid I can’t say. Confidential and all that. Just know that it’s ongoing and long-term.”
“How long term?” she asks, voice softening as she begins to cotton on.
Jack shrugs, reaching across the table for his report. “Years, I suspect. You never know with these things. The whole case might even fall apart before I can close it,” he adds, looking down at the paper before him.
“I see,” she says, uncrossing her arms. She pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I… I don’t suppose you can do anything about the other men gathered up in the raid?”
Jack continues eyeing his report, but his voice is quieter now, almost apologetic. “Ah, no.” He sighs, just once. “I may be an arse, but I do sometimes wish I could change the laws.”
“For me?”
He shakes his head. “For everyone.”
Phryne reaches across the table and takes his hand, effectively blocking the report once more. He doesn’t seem to mind this time.
“Well… for an arse, I’d say you’re still doing pretty well.”
He snorts, eyes down and fixed on their joined hands.
“Dinner?” she asks.
“If you can stand the company,” he retorts, and now it is her turn to shrug.
“Well if not I can always lock you in a lavatory,” she suggests, turning to leave as she does.
He might still be an arse, but the chuckle that follows her out is a welcome sound indeed.
---------- 4. Damn ----------
“Damn.”
Jack sighs at her softly uttered curse and closes his eyes — not that it changes anything. The confined place they managed to get themselves stuck in is darker than Egypt on a ninth plague night.
“Not the most reassuring of sentiments, Miss Fisher,” he retorts, breathing and slowly counting to ten in his mind. Ever since the war, his relationship with dark, cramped spaces has been somewhat on the rocky side.
The sound of something metallic hitting the ground seems especially loud in the stark absence of both light and space.
“Well, Inspector,” comes her exceedingly curt reply. “I didn’t exactly plan on getting stuck in a cellar and breaking my favourite lock pick on this fine Wednesday afternoon, did I?”
So the lock pick’s fractured, and the sound he just heard was the broken-off piece falling to the floor — meaning the head must still be stuck in the rusty lock.
Perfect. Just perfect.
And now Miss Fisher’s on edge, as well.
“I wasn’t pointing any fingers, Phryne,” he says in a manner that he hopes comes across as placating enough. Lord knows the last thing he wants — or needs — is to have a sulking Phryne Fisher on his hands; they’re full enough with this unplanned confinement, as it is.
Her short huff and the slightly muffled, rhythmic thumping of her heeled shoe sound mollified enough to his sensitive ears.
“Yes, well…” she sighs after a moment, and for the first time in thirty minutes, Jack allows himself to smile.
After all, an appeased Phryne Fisher is a smug Phryne Fisher. And that Phryne Fisher is a woman he’d bet his meagre policeman’s wages on.
“So, how do you reckon,” he begins, turning a new page and shuffling closer in her direction - it’s not hard, even in total darkness, her expensive French perfume dominates the enclosed space like a damned valkyrie. “Any chance for a cavalry rescue?”
He can practically hear the self-satisfaction in her smile when she answers. “Why, Jack, must you even ask?”
Five minutes later, Mr Butler bursts through the door; a loaded gun in one hand, a giant cleaver in the other.
And when in the suddenly blinding afternoon light, Phryne turns to Jack, smile as dazzling as the setting sun, and asks, “gratin for dinner, Inspector?” He only smiles that self-deprecating, half-smile of his.
“How can I refuse, Miss Fisher?”
Jack Robinson knows when not to ask questions.
---------- 3. Cock ----------
As crime scenes go, the one they arrive at together is of the more peculiar ones he’s had the misfortune to inspect.
If the rather foul-smelling location — a chicken coup on a property on the outskirts of Melbourne — isn’t odd enough, then the murder weapon clucking by the dead body, and pecking at the unsightly pool of oozing blood, definitely is.
Jack, having knelt to inspect the victim upon arrival with his trench coat tucked neatly under his bottom, rises to his feet and looks at his partner.
Lips pressed tightly, fingers laced behind her back, Phryne looks upwards, clearly bursting at the seams.
He sighs.
“Go on, then.”
“That’s one massive — “
“Miss Fisher.”
“I was about to say chook, Inspector.”
Jack doesn’t buy the indignation. Nor the pout, for that matter. He knows exactly what she was about to say, and — engaged to be married or not — there are still some things that his loyal constable’s green, delicate ears simply cannot handle.
He turns to said constable with a rather resigned air, ignoring the suspiciously innocent-acting woman beside him.
“Why were we summoned, Collins?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows in the direction of the unfortunate forty-something-years-old male victim lying on the straw-covered floor. Clothes shredded unevenly, blond hair matted with blood — the poor man appears to have met his unfortunate end by aggressive pecking to the carotid artery. A lamentable, horrific accident, undoubtedly — but an accident, nonetheless. “This hardly seems like premeditated murder. For one thing, the murder weapon is alive and clucking. Somehow I doubt the Victoria Police Force will accept this rooster as evidence.”
The unladylike snort coming from his left is almost successful in making him smile.
Almost.
Collins winces and leans closer to his superior. Phryne does the same.
“Well, to tell you the truth, sir,” the young man stage-whispers, “I thought the same as you, but the wailing woman sitting on the steps of that house with Constable Brown, claiming she did it made me change my mind.”
“Come again, Collins?”
“‘Tis true, Sir,” Hugh says, nodding for emphasis as he leafs through his notes in pursuit of the — no doubt — fascinating witness statement. “Oh, here we go. Apparently, the suspect — that is the victim’s wife, sir — found out that he’s been unfaithful. An affair with the wife’s sister, if you can imagine, sir — ”
Jack’s eyebrows rise once in confirmation.
“ — and, well, when he came to feed the chooks earlier this morning, the wife was waiting, and set the rooster on him, yelling, quote, ‘how do you like being the one cuckolded, you bastard’, end quote.”
Well, that does it, really.
This time, Miss Fisher’s unrestrained snort is loud enough to startle the already anxious chickens, sending the crime scene into a pandemonium of flying feathers and noisy clucking.
Jack sighs. Again.
“Yes, thank you, Collins. Dismissed.”
In her defence, Phryne waits a whole minute after his constable’s hasty departure to speak. Smiling fiendishly, she shuffles closer, her face full of childish delight.
And Jack almost falls for that charm, that joy de vivre she can’t seem to shake, that glee —
“You know, you could say it was death by cock, Inspector.”
“Miss Fisher.”
Her ringing laughter as she walks past him to the car sends the occupants of the coup into another frenzy.
---------- 2. Hell ----------
It could — and probably should — be argued that wearing white to a crime scene is a bad idea.
The thing is, it generally works out for her anyway.
Right up until it doesn’t.
Right up until the prime suspect returns to the scene of the crime, takes one look at the investigating team, and then runs away, straight through a field.
It never even occurs to her not to follow.
And now here she is, paying the price, in the sartorial sense.
“Bloody hell,” she mutters in irritation, trying to clean up her blouse and only succeeding in smearing more of the grime around.
And he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. But it’s just so incongruous — the always immaculate Miss Fisher mucking about in the earth with the rest of the mortals. And she’s just so annoyed about it…
He laughs.
Well, not laughs, he’s far too much of a professional for that. It’s more of a… chuckle. A sensible chuckle.
(It’s actually a giggle, but Jack will not admit this to anyone, even to himself.)
For a moment, she stares at him in wide-eyed shock, and yet he cannot wish the sound back.
And then the shock subsides.
And he swallows.
And a moment later — and for the life of him he cannot recall how she does it without him realising first — he feels a wet plop land on the end of his nose.
Her eyes widen for a second before her entire face contorts into a mask of exceptional effort, every muscle in her face working valiantly, if quixotically, to hold back the laughter.
(Her eyes do not make the same attempt.)
“If it helps,” she begins slowly, her entire body shaking with the effort of keeping her mirth contained, “I was aiming for your chest.”
“Funnily enough,” he says with as much dignity as he can manage, “it does not.”
And then the clump of mud falls, landing on the ground with a squelch.
And her laughter can no longer be contained.
Phryne fairley erupts with a cackle, laughing so hard she doubles over, so hard tears stream from her eyes.
He holds out for about 10 seconds and then joins her.
He has no idea how long it takes them to calm down after that, only that it is long enough that no one is around by the time they do.
(Her eyes are still smiling, though.)
She glances up at him, bites her lip and seems curiously… cautious, for a moment.
“Something you wish to say, Miss Fisher?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
She pauses, lets the uncertainty win, and smirks instead.
“Just that you look ridiculous,” she teases. He probably does; he can feel a bit of mud drying on his nose. “Do… you?” she adds meaningfully. “Have something to say?”
“I do,” he confirms, stepping absurdly close to her to lean down and speak low in her ear. She shivers. “You probably shouldn’t wear white to a crime scene.”
And then he steps back, just a little, because he can’t help but want to see her reaction.
She is… amused. Challenged. Perhaps even a little disappointed, but that could be Jack’s wishful thinking.
She raises a hand to his chest.
“I’ll wear less next time,” she promises suggestively. And then she drags her hand down the front of his coat….
…leaving a wide streak of mud behind.
They spend at least another five minutes laughing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later, he returns to the station, and Hugh looks up from the front desk upon his boss’ arrival. Taking in Jack’s dishevelled appearance, the mud on his face and coat, he whistles low.
“Must have been some chase, sir,” Hugh offers sympathetically.
“It still is,” Jack concurs wryly. “But I think one of us is close to catching up.”
Hugh smiles awkwardly in confusion. “Sir?”
“Nothing, Collins,” Jack says, smiling as he closes his office door.
---------- 1. Cunt ----------
Jack Robinson is a man of many talents.
Apart from the obvious few a man of his character and profession ought to have, his list of talents is quite diverse and often diverting. Including not only the rather mundane abilities such as gardening and baking, the illustrious account of Jack Robinson’s skills and accomplishments also comprises some hidden gems in the form of unexpected thespian prowess, a firm understanding of most things spirits, and an unending knowledge of literary texts.
And those are the types of talents Phryne Fisher enjoys uncovering. Slowly, and deliberately.
In addition to being a man of many talents, Jack Robinson is also a man of principles — often to Phryne’s great chagrin. He’s honourable to a fault — bloody chivalrous, really — and as straight as an iron rod. Dull as dishwater, as she’d often heard him described in society, back when the days of their acquaintance were still new and filled with enough suspicion to warrant an arrest.
Jack Robinson is a man who always does the right and noble thing.
Until he doesn’t.
It happens one night over too much whiskey. It’s rather unceremoniously late, but there’s jazz on the gramophone, and spirits in their bellies; the light is soft and warm, and the words spoken between the two of them are even softer still. Her eyes are painfully enticing under the influence, and the dress chosen for the evening is so lethal, he’s in danger of having to write his own murder report. The dimness of the lighting accentuates the curves of her body under the faint shimmer of the fabric as she moves, and for the life of him he can’t seem to muster the will to employ the usual resistance to the unending onslaught of that deadly Fisher charm. Thus he surrenders, wholeheartedly.
And so she pounces.
By some means — only the heavens (and Mr Butler) know how — they make it upstairs to her boudoir. Clothes discarded, chests heaving and teeth clashing, they fall into her bed in a tangle of eager limbs, like a pair of restless adolescents drunk on their first lustful encounter.
And that’s when Phryne Fisher discovers another skill on that Robinson list — the talent for languages. For when his mouth moves past the slope of her belly, and he French kisses her cunt in the filthiest manner known to man, she loses herself — in the geographical sense — for a good few seconds.
Much later — after quite a few little deaths — when they lie in bed, slick with sweat and bare as Adam and Eve in Eden, he self-deprecatingly states ‘muscle memory’ as the cause of her thrills.
And Phryne mentally adds another unearthed talent to the list.
---------- 1. Love ----------
Phryne is an impressive woman, so it shouldn’t really be surprising that the number of profanities in her vocabulary is impressive as well.
Still, to hear them all that first night…
Jack was ridiculously proud, oddly scared, and bizarrely aroused all at once — par for the course with her, really. Which was good because her amorous lexicon had only increased since that night, and not always in English.
Tonight, for example, Jack had learned that “åh, helvete!” was a Swedish cry of passion and not, as he’d thought in the moment, a sans-serif typeface. Apparently she’d picked it up from some masseuse she’d met in her travels, though he’d declined to hear the details. Still, a compliment is a compliment.
He grins to himself at the memory, thinking he is being subtle, but she catches him out anyway.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her head on his chest and her voice softer than usual in the quiet, post-coital cocoon of her boudoir.
He pauses for a moment, considering. “Communication,” he finally says and she looks up, arching an eyebrow playfully. Jack gives her a knowing smile and closes his eyes.
“Communication,” she repeats in an incredulous tone.
“Mmmm,” he confirms. “In all its many varied and wonderful forms.”
Phryne sits up, leaning her weight on one elbow as she cocks her head to the side. “Care to elaborate?”
“Not especially. I’m quite comfortable just now, thank you.”
Phryne rolls her eyes and nudges him in the shoulder, just the wrong side of gently.
“Inspector…” she says, half demand, half enticement. Jack rubs his shoulder dramatically.
“Like that,” he replies and Phryne stares at him in confusion.
“Like what?”
“Like that. Like what you just did. That shoulder push means ‘Jack you’re being obstinate and I’m here to ruin your good time’.”
Phryne’s eyes narrow. “Oh does it?”
“Mmm hmm. And when you do this,” Jack stares at her lips in demonstration, “that means you want me to kiss you.”
He demonstrates that too.
Eagerly.
“What else do I say?” she asks, slightly breathless.
“When you roll your eyes it means I’m being dramatic. Or when you put your hand on your hip it means ‘Jack, shut up and listen to me’. Or when you hold my hand…” again Jack demonstrates, “It means you’re listening to me.”
“What does it mean when I do this?” she asks, settling back down to lie across his chest, her hand making lazy, half-formed shapes on his chest.
“Oh that? That means, ‘Jack, hang the early shift and please stay the night’.”
Phryne is quiet for a moment, and for a few precious seconds Jack wonders if he overstepped some invisible line he hadn’t known not to cross. But her voice, when she finally replies, is calm, if quiet.
“And will you?” she asks. “Stay the night?”
Jack smiles.
“How can I refuse when you say please?”
“And what does this mean?” Phryne whispers, stilling her ever wandering hand and placing it gently over his heart.
“That,” he says, the playfulness in his voice replaced by something more steady. “That means something very precious indeed. That means the world to me.”
She nods, a small motion against his person, and resumes tracing meaningless forms across his chest. “I confess I thought perhaps you were going to tease me,” she says, not looking up. “About my more colourful turns of phrase, or… or all the things I don’t say.”
Jack pulls her a little closer, holds her a little tighter. ”Your form of communication is tactile, Phryne. Actions over words. I know that. I’ve known that for quite some time.” He chuckles. “And besides, you call me an arse enough for me to know you care.”
She snorts, then sighs.
“Yes, but you do love your words, Jack. You, with your Shakespeare and your Rilke and your volumes and volumes of poetry.” The shapes she draws grow less abstract, and Jack feels a circle, a crescent, a heart. “And I do… I do love you, you know.”
Jack remains quiet, but — to his and probably her surprise — does not really react, despite the momentousness of her declaration. His smile does grow wider, though.
“I know,” he says instead. “You’ve said it often enough.”
He can feel her shake her head, can feel the smile against his skin as she does.
“Arse,” she grumbles, and Jack holds his hands up in surrender.
“Stop, stop,” he pleads, “I’m already wooed.”
Phryne sits up quite suddenly then and levels an amused glare in his direction. “Oh, do shut up,” she suggests, smacking him unexpectedly in the face with a pillow. Jack retaliates, of course, because these actions mean something as well, and her laughter as they joust is its own love language. Poetry in motion, he thinks, and he wouldn’t trade it for all the Shakespeare in the world.
His pillow finds its mark and then he is laughing and then so is she and then, and for a long time after, words become wholly unnecessary.