One Body in Three Quarter Time
Jack and Phryne have met on the edge of crime scenes many times since the first, but the second time Phryne finds her nosey way onto one of Jack's, she is met with significant resistance.
The body, covered fully by a sheet of white, lay at the edge where dirt meets road on an empty highway on the outskirts of Melbourne.
Both Jack and Collins intercept Phryne a hundred yards from the scene, Jack's expression considerably darker than that of his young Constable. In preparation, Phryne schools her features into her most brilliant and captivating smile, and allows her body to loosen in a way that makes men far more cooperative.
"Miss Fisher-" Jack begins, stepping to block her path towards the body. Phryne stops abruptly, shifts her weight, and pauses on the balls of her feet as she tries to guess his next move.
"A murder?" She raises her eyebrows and bobs left to sneak around him. However the police Detective Inspector is wiley and he matches her footwork, blocking her path again.
"I could," she says as she steps right this time and he shadows. "Be of," a pivoting step to the left, and he is there again. "Assistance."
Jack realizes, belatedly, that he's losing ground to Miss Fisher as they shift into this jagged one-two step. So he wraps his finger against her upper arm and pulls her against his chest, a momentarily effective pause to her movement. He is rewarded by a coquettish flutter of her eyelashes and the warmth of her malleable body against his chest.
"Miss Fisher, if you want to dance with me, you only need to ask." The the words are playful yet his delivery is stiff. He doesn't want to like this woman, this infuriatingly disruptive woman who has shown up at his crime scene in feathers and french perfume. Who seems to find his nearness appealing and doesn't seem the slightest bit impressed that he's a Detective Inspector. Who looks at him not unlike a hungry cat would watch an unwitting canary.
Detective Phryne Fisher.
Not slacking his grip at all he steps into her, forcing her backwards to their starting place. She keeps up with him on her tiptoes, her eyes momentarily wide. They've come to a stop and he still hasn't let her go, one hand on her elbow and the other curved around her waist in a grotesque parody of a waltz. Her expression goes slack for an instant before her impossibly red lips curve into a smile. She didn't expect him to play so soon.
It takes her two blinks to gather her wits and she cocks her head, leaning in until her lips almost brush his ear.
"Do you really think you can keep up with me?" She whispers and slides from his loose grasp, already well aware of the answer.
No, Jack thinks dully as he watches her sashay in the direction of the dead. A careless, sensuous walk that he instinctively knows will lead her right into trouble every time. Not yet, anyway.
About that title - I know it is often just another way to say WTF, but since this story will contain whiskey, a tango and a foxtrot, I figured it worked.
This is a five-times fic so there will be five chapters. The first two are already written.