Author's Note: A short one-shot inspired by a five second clip of a moment in the early Louise Brooks film, Pandora's Box.
Hello to readers old and new, and apologies for my long absence.
It had almost been a triumphant victory.
Phryne would have smiled at Jack as he took the kidnapper into custody and returned the young girl safely to her mother's arms. Another case solved, an injustice righted, a dangerous man off the streets.
Afterward, they would have had celebratory drinks in the parlour.
Whiskey.
...
No. There will be no celebration tonight. No exchanging of heated glances as the success of the day and the lateness of the hour induced them to edge still closer to crossing that invisible line between them.
...
Phryne has taken a second bath in as many hours: the sensation of blood on her skin is hard to clean away. She has just knotted the cord of her dressing gown when a quiet tap at the bedroom door precedes Mr Butler's entry.
Jack is downstairs.
She'd half expected not to see him again tonight and her voice is almost flat when she instructs Mr Butler to send the Inspector up here to her bedroom. She has no energy tonight to pretend at decorum, not even for Jack's sake.
He arrives, hat and coat discarded downstairs. As she stares blankly at him, Phryne sees it written in the line of his jaw; in the odd lop-sidedness of his shoulders; in the way he has pulled his necktie tight and forced that errant curl of hair above his brow back into order. Guilt. It is only his sheer strength of will that is keeping Jack on his feet now.
Phryne's face softens. She lifts one pale arm and offers her hand to him.
In an instant, Jack's unnatural stiffness is broken as he crosses the floor and pulls her against him. His cheek is rough against her own as he clutches her like she is the only beacon of light in the darkness and when Phryne sinks into the chair behind her, Jack doesn't hesitate to drop to his knees, his face still pressed to her jaw as if to hide himself from the world.
She doesn't say, "It's not your fault." The words, "You couldn't have known what he'd do," don't pass her lips. In this moment, those platitudes – no matter how true – cannot possibly assuage the responsibility Jack feels. She knows, because it was the same for her all those years ago with Janey.
Her fingers are trailing comfortingly up and down Jack's spine when he finally lifts his head. His eyes are dry- she knows he will not allow himself to cry at this moment– as he meets her gaze. And then he is moving to brush his lips against her own.
And it is with a gentle firmness that Phryne raises a hand to stop him.
The touch of pleading that passes across Jack's face almost weakens her resolve, but Phryne has seen too many broken young men not to recognise this for what it is: a desperation to feel something, anything, that will sweep away the pain. And while she would gladly give him that, she knows that it would only hurt Jack in the long run, were he to think, tomorrow morning, that she had given him her body simply out of pity.
A soft smile of reassurance on her face, Phryne lightly pats one hand against her thigh and, at Jack's questioning look, nods once.
Slowly, almost shyly, Jack lays his cheek against her lap. He seems to almost stop breathing for a moment, until Phryne's hand on his upper back relaxes him into a comfortable slump against her legs.
Her other hand cards soothingly through his hair, disrupting the strands…disrupting the guilt.
He closes his eyes.
She watches his face.
They find a measure of peace.