Title/Prompt: The Silent Meteor
Rating/Warnings: T
Word count: 6280
Summary: "I confess I'll be sorry to be parted from you," she said. "Who could have guessed that being handcuffed to a Detective Inspector would be so much fun?"
Notes: Written in May 2017 for niki as for fandom5k 2017.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
- Alfred Tennyson, Summer Night
Melbourne lay defeated under the dark skies of another hot summer night. Windows were thrown open and damp sheets strung up in a vain attempt to catch the breeze. Parks and gardens had shriveled and wilted under bare skies, and the sunset that evening had been a blazing fury of colour, bringing to mind the old adage red sky at night, sailors' delight. It would be hot again tomorrow.
Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was still at his desk, his electric fan rattling noisily and making his paperwork flutter. His office doors were open, for it was too stuffy with them closed, and he could hear the drunks in the cells calling to one another and singing, and the hesitant tap-tap-tapping of typewriter keys as a constable at the front desk typed out a report.
He looked down at the files in front of him, but the words had all started to blur together. His active cases were all tediously minor — a smattering of burglaries across the city, thieves taking advantage of doors and windows left open in the heat and pocketing whatever they could find. Jack supposed he should be thankful that was the worst of it, but so far the missing items — cash, silverware, and several items of jewellery — had failed to turn up. They had no leads or suspects, and paperwork always seemed more of a blow when it wasn't for anything particularly meaty.
Still, due to the lack of anything else, he was taking a particular interest in each break-and-enter, using it as an opportunity to make sure Collins had his skills up to scratch and nothing was being missed. An easy task when such a lack of physical evidence left little to be overlooked anyway.
With no pressing matters keeping him from his bed, Jack locked his papers away and bid goodnight to the constable at the front desk.
He rolled his sleeves up as he walked to his car, his suit jacket folded over his arm. The night was still warm — there had been no breeze all day, and it felt just as stuffy outside as it did in. He walked past the police stables to where he had parked his car, the smell of horses and straw almost overpowering, making his nose itch.
He shut himself in his car and was immediately overwhelmed by another scent, softly pleasant and intimately familiar. One glance at the passenger seat found the source — a delicate peach silk scarf, which Miss Fisher had discarded earlier that day, cursing the heat and mentioning another possible trip to Queenscliff in order to wage war against it. Jack tutted to himself, remembering he had intended to return it to her on his way home.
He glanced at his watch. He knew, despite the late hour, that it was likely she would still be awake. But a drive out to St. Kilda, and the idea of rolling his sleeves down again, convinced him that the matter of returning her scarf could wait until morning. Instead, he started the car and drove home.
The following day was as hot and overbearing as the red sunset had promised. The Yarra wound slowly out to Port Phillip Bay and the crowds of Melbourne followed, flocking once again to the beaches and inlets where they could wade or swim. The front page of The Argus detailed six deaths by drowning at Geelong the previous afternoon, and contained a plea from the patrolling Surf Life Saving Association members for everyone to take care and to never swim alone. Jack had pondered the wisdom of that statement as he'd read the names of the six victims, all of whom had been swimming together.
The paper also detailed the rising numbers of break-and-enters. Instead of warning Melburnians to lock their doors and windows, the article made quite a song and dance about the police not having any clues or suspects.
Jack sat in his office with sweat dampening his shirt and collar, the electric fan only stirring the warm air and making noise. Miss Fisher had come by first thing to poke through his files for anything interesting, but had since given up and was instead fanning herself with The Argus, the ends of her short hair flaring with each passing wave.
"Are you sure all of these deaths are natural, Jack?" she asked. "Couldn't one of them be murder? Or at least, just the slightest bit suspicious?"
"I'm more than pleased to say I don't think so, Miss Fisher," he answered, watching the light shine off a bracelet she wore on her wrist as she fanned herself. "All causes have been deemed natural, as unfortunate as that may seem to a lady detective."
"Quite unfortunate," she said, not hiding her disappointment. She tossed the newspaper to his desk with a sigh and then gave him a smile. "How unlike us, to be without a murder for an entire week."
Jack would not admit he was feeling as restless as she was about it. "I refuse to apologise for not being able to offer you any deaths to solve."
She reached for the case files on his desk. "Petty theft it is, then."
"Breaking and entering is not petty theft," Jack answered, rising to her bait.
She licked her thumb and flipped through the file papers, her dark lashes sweeping low. Jack pulled the newspaper towards him again and pretended to read it as Miss Fisher studied the list of stolen items yet to be recovered.
"I don't suppose you found a silk scarf in your car yesterday, did you?" she asked suddenly, apparently reminded of her own missing item.
"It's uh — you did leave it in my car, yes," Jack said, suddenly realising he'd left the scarf folded neatly on top of the chest of drawers in his bedroom. Her perfume had weighed heavily in the air all night, causing him to think of her with a frequency most inappropriate. "I'm afraid I took it home with me last night, and I forgot to bring it with me this morning."
Miss Fisher arched an eyebrow slightly.
"Apologies," he added, feeling a little embarrassed.
"Not at all," she said, a wicked little gleam in her blue eyes. "I'm rather flattered one of my more delicate garments followed you home, Jack."
He attempted to splutter some sort of rebuttal, but she interrupted him.
"Do you leave your window open? I could attempt to retrieve it myself." She tapped the file folder with a grin. "One way to enter the mind of a midnight cat burglar."
"Something tells me you know very well what it's like to be a midnight cat burglar, Miss Fisher," Jack answered. "Windows open or closed, I hardly think it matters to you."
She raised her eyebrows in an expression of innocence. "I'll keep my mind in the realm of private detective then, shall I?"
He hid his smile behind the newspaper. "I would much prefer it."
"She estimates the amount of cash stolen at about £60, sir."
"Do we have an estimate on the worth of the jewellery?" Jack carefully closed the lid on the wooden jewellery box, using his handkerchief as a barrier against any potential fingerprints.
"Uh…" Collins flipped through his notebook. "No. Most of it is sentimental value, I believe. One brooch we might be able to find — it's rather unique, it's shaped into Mrs Winter's initials, N.W. — I'll get the word out to pawn shops, see if we can't get a match if someone's trying to move it on."
Jack gave a nod and glanced around the room. Not much had been disturbed. "Was Mrs Winter home when the break in occurred?"
"Yes, sir. Asleep." Collins gestured to the unmade bed, looking uncomfortable. "She's a little hard of hearing, but…"
Jack frowned. It took someone of particular brazenness — or stupidity — to rifle through someone's belongings as they slept a few feet away. "And her window was open?"
"Yes sir. The heat, and all these recent deaths by heatstroke… She felt she was safer with it open." Collins shrugged, and took a moment to tug at the collar of his uniform. Jack glanced him up and down, feeling rather sorry for him. As uncomfortable as Jack was in the warmth of the day, it was nothing to the discomfort of a full police uniform.
Jack sighed and swung his hat idly by a fingertip. "Very well. Wrap things up here, Collins, and see if we can't make any further connection to the other burglaries. Make sure you don't leave anything unturned." He glanced around the tidy bedroom, his heart sinking as he realised no clues were going to be found.
"Yes sir," Collins answered dutifully.
They exchanged a look which indicated Collins was thinking the exact same thing. Until the brooch turned up, there was nothing further they could do.
The afternoon broadsheets had reported a cooler change to come across from Adelaide in the next day or so, but Jack had his doubts. He slid his bedroom window open in an effort to allow the breeze in, willing himself to forget the brazen midnight thief. (And then willing himself to forget the image of Miss Fisher tumbling gracefully through his open window to take back her scarf.)
In the stifling heat, her perfume seemed to have infused itself into the very walls of his bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed to undress, and it seemed to cloud around him, sinking itself deep into his lungs so he had no hope of forgetting it. It was not a scent he seemed able to adjust to. With each breath it was there again, conjuring up images of raven-dark hair and twinkling blue eyes. It was unlike anything else he was familiar with — he detected no heavy floral, nor was it similar to talcum or Pear's soap. French, he had concluded, and probably very expensive.
He tugged his tie off with more force than was necessary.
The heat was getting to him.
Jack heard Miss Fisher's greeting to Collins at the front desk long before she came into view.
"Good morning, Hugh!" she sang, declaring herself like a morning magpie, her heels tapping on the tiled floor.
"Uh, good morning, Miss Fisher," Hugh answered, a flustered mix of politeness and nervousness. He chased her and helpfully announced her arrival to Jack three seconds after she'd seated herself opposite him.
"I have a gift for you," she said, looking very pleased with herself.
Jack's empty stomach hoped it was something warm and sweet that Miss Williams might have sent from the kitchen, but alas…
The brooch rattled a little as Miss Fisher placed it on his desk with a flourish of her monogrammed handkerchief. She leaned back in her chair and regarded him through her dark eyelashes.
Jack did his best not to smile, but she looked so pleased with herself it was a difficult task. "Mrs Winter's silver brooch."
"Precisely."
"How, exactly, did you come by this significant piece of evidence?" Jack asked, wondering if he wanted to know the answer at all.
She tried to look nonchalant. "I happen to know the right people."
"Cat burgers?" Jack suggested helpfully.
She tutted. "All right, Jane knows the right people. At least, she knows how to extract truth from gossiping school friends." She looked rather proud.
They both leaned forward to examine the brooch again. Her perfume wafted towards him and Jack realised he had once again forgotten to bring her scarf with him. He decided not to mention it and hoped he'd be able to bring it in tomorrow without fuss.
"The thieves are young and inexperienced, but very bold," Miss Fisher declared. "They're selling the jewellery on the sly at the Queen Victoria Market."
"There's a team of them?" Jack asked.
"Two or three, according to Jane. A small crew of societal misfits taking their opportunities as they come, led by one Jim Baker."
"And does Jane know where we can find this ragtag bunch of cat burglars?"
"She suggested where we might find Jim," she said. "And I've come to you with this information on the condition that you escort me without your uniformed companion in tow. I think we can do without scaring the wits out of this young man."
"Yes, Collins is much more frightening than I am," Jack said.
Miss Fisher smiled at him. "You must have been a commanding presence in uniform, Jack. I'm rather sorry I missed seeing you at that stage of your career."
"Something tells me my career would have been very different had I met you any earlier, Miss Fisher."
She beamed again, and jumped to her feet. "Shall we?"
The thief, Jim Baker, turned out to be a sharp-faced boy of fourteen. They heard him long before seeing him — he was throwing stones through the windows of an abandoned factory. Graffiti had been chalked on the walls and the cracked pavement outside, and broken liquor bottles littered the ground. Jack recognised it as the sort of horrendously dangerous place kids would be drawn to.
Upon seeing Jack and Miss Fisher, Jim had immediately made a run for it into the factory. They chased him through the open building until he found himself cornered in one of the smaller offices, shiny hand prints cutting through the dust on the old wooden desk. Jack knew immediately that the desk was probably hiding a stash of stolen items.
"I haven't done anything," Jim said immediately, realising he was stuck.
"Then why did you run?" Miss Fisher countered, straightening her hat and trying to catch her breath.
"Get out from behind the desk, Jim," Jack said, trying to sound stern and non-threatening at the same time.
"You coppers always think I've done something when I haven't," Jim said.
"If you've done nothing," Miss Fisher said, arching her eyebrow at him, "you've nothing to worry about."
Jim glanced at the desk, confirming Jack's suspicions that the rest of the missing items were likely stashed inside. He didn't have long to think upon it — in one quick movement, Jim jerked the top drawer open.
It took a moment for Jack's body to catch up with his brain. "Stop!" he ordered sharply. He threw his arm across Miss Fisher and pulled her behind him, trying to gain distance on their young suspect at the same time, but the pistol was out before he'd taken half a step towards him.
"Stop there!" Jim shouted, his hand shaking. He looked utterly panicked, and Jack's heart sank.
He stopped still, furious with himself for letting Miss Fisher take the lead; furious with himself for not insisting Jim come away from the desk. On any other occasion, Jack would have a good chance of getting the gun away from him, but… well, there was a civilian in tow.
"This is a whole lot sillier than taking pretty trinkets out of unlocked bedrooms," Miss Fisher said, sounding exasperated. "You're digging yourself a —"
"Miss Fisher," Jack interrupted, giving her his best Detective Inspector face.
She took the hint and silenced herself, but not without tilting her head at him just so, to let him know she could get the situation in hand all by herself, thank you very much.
"Is she a copper?" Jim asked curiously, gesturing with the gun.
"Lady detective," Miss Fisher answered, her silence — as always — limited to less than what Jack would like it to be. "And this is a strange place to keep a gun, Jim."
"I hide stuff here all the time and nobody ever finds it," Jim answered.
"Like stolen jewellery?" Miss Fisher asked.
Jim's face went red. "No," he insisted.
"Is that gun stolen too?"
Jack could see Jim's patience wearing thin, and his control on the gun steadied, much to Jack's distress.
"You got handcuffs?" Jim asked suddenly.
"Not with me," Miss Fisher said, in a tone that caused Jack to give her a rather startled glance.
"You," Jim said, gesturing again. "Handcuffs."
Jack held them up with the tip of his index finger, letting them dangle in full view.
"Cuff your hand to hers," he ordered.
"This will hardly slow us down at all," Miss Fisher said. "You clearly don't have a plan in place."
"Miss Fisher," Jack pleaded.
"Where are your friends, Jim?" Miss Fisher asked conversationally, folding her arms across her chest. "Did you split the loot between you, or are you waiting for them here before you all leave Melbourne together?"
Jack glanced at her curiously, wondering what other information she had chosen to withhold from him.
"You don't have any proof of anything," Jim said. "There's no jewellery."
"Well, holding a police officer at gunpoint probably isn't the best way to try and protest your innocence," Miss Fisher said reasonably.
Jim motioned impatiently. "Hurry up," he said, locking eyes with Jack. "Throw me the keys when you're done."
Jack considered his options, but found he didn't have many. He doubted Jim really wanted to use the gun, but there was too high a chance it would go off accidentally. He therefore handcuffed his right wrist to Miss Fisher's left, and gently threw the keys across to Jim. He caught them easily and pocketed them. The hand holding the gun was still trembling slightly, and Jack was suddenly worried that the adrenaline of his potential escape would lead to a finger too heavy on the trigger.
"Put the gun down," he requested gently. "I'm not going to arrest you." He tugged his handcuffed wrist up, to indicate the impossibility of placing anyone else in handcuffs.
"Move back," the kid ordered, holding the gun higher now, pointing it at Jack's chest. "Just keep going back until I tell you to stop."
Jack and Miss Fisher marched slowly backwards, hands held up, linked together by Jack's handcuffs. He hoped she had her lock-pick kit with her.
"Open the door," the kid instructed.
Jack turned his head to see they were backed against a wooden door with a heavy latch. It opened onto a small cupboard, cluttered with a collection of brooms which seemed only to be there as supports for several elaborate spiderwebs.
They were ushered inside, and both watched helplessly as Jim grinned at them one last time and slammed the door. They heard the latch fall into place, and then the very clear sounds of Jim emptying the desk drawers of his stolen loot. Jack pressed his eye to the crack in the door, and watched helplessly as his main suspect made a quick getaway with his pockets full of evidence.
Miss Fisher was standing very close, pressing right up against Jack's side. "You don't think there are spiders in here, do you?" she asked, her voice sounding strangely high-pitched.
Jack blinked and looked down at her, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. "Possibly," he said. He heard the delicate ripping of spiders' silk as Miss Fisher shifted beside him, disturbing the cobwebs around them and leaning into him with considerable force.
She shivered. "I can't stand spiders."
Jack was surprised. "I didn't think you were afraid of anything."
"They have too many legs. Too many legs and too many eyes. Did you know they can have eight eyes as well as eight legs?" She breathed a short sigh against the front of Jack's shirt, which seemed to carry all the way through to his breastbone. "There is no good reason a creature needs an entire face full of eyes."
"Shall we attempt escape, then?" Jack asked. Outside, he could hear the distant rumble of thunder as the promised storms finally made their way over Melbourne.
"An opportunist thief is my least favourite kind of thief," Miss Fisher said suddenly. "That young man has absolutely no cleverness about him at all."
"He has some cleverness," Jack said. He tugged at the handcuffs to prove his point. "Do you happen to have your lock-pick with you?"
He could see a little, and she looked up at him, her eyes shining at him in delight. "I do, as a matter of fact. Are you advocating my picking of a lock?"
"I'm advocating your picking of this lock," Jack said, indicating the cuffs. He could feel the warmth of her hand against his own, and her breath against his chest, passing through the fabric of his shirt and vest. Her perfume surrounded him, and his mind unhelpfully brought forward the image of his own bedroom, which was still soaked with the scent of it.
He cleared his throat to startle the thoughts out of his mind, but it was no good this time. Miss Fisher's presence simply overrode all else.
She grasped his hand in her own. With her other hand she deftly drew a long pin from somewhere inside her camisole. Jack averted his eyes, but his skin felt very hot. The cupboard they were locked in seemed to be almost airless. He didn't want to move, in case he did happen to disturb any spiders lurking in the corners, and the collection of brooms stacked around them kept them pinned in a space even smaller than the cupboard walls allowed.
Jack suddenly remembered, for no apparent reason, that he knew what the weight of Miss Fisher's body felt like in his arms; that he knew precisely what the pale curves of her breasts looked like under spotlight and seductive feather fans, and that he had once kissed her on a cold morning in a warm French cafe, adrenaline surging through his veins.
The thunder rumbled again.
"I do hope it rains," Miss Fisher said conversationally, delicately maneuvering the pick in her fingers. She still had hold of Jack's hand, and was holding it up between them in an effort to see the lock on the handcuffs. "It's impossible to sleep soundly when it's so hot."
Jack drew in a steady breath. His mind skipped through various images like somebody was flipping through a deck of playing cards — Miss Fisher's peach silk scarf, an open window to her bedroom, pink feathers fluttering in a seductive dance, bed sheets thrown back against the heat to reveal pale skin…
She paused her work on the handcuffs. Jack could feel her breath against the back of his hand. "That's a lovely aftershave you're wearing," she said. "Is it your usual?"
His mouth was dry and his heart was beating alarmingly fast. "It is," he said.
"Hm," she responded thoughtfully. In the dim light he saw her inspecting the cuffs again.
"Is it distracting you?" he asked curiously, wondering why she had brought it up.
Her lashes fluttered slightly. "Close quarters," she said, "are always distracting, Jack."
"Well," Jack said, and he cursed the way his voice sounded. "Escaping said close quarters is step two. Step one is the handcuffs."
"Do you have a plan for step two?" Miss Fisher asked.
He had planned a firm kick against the door, but now that he was thinking about it, he wasn't sure it would work. There wasn't much room for movement, and he doubted he'd be able to get much force against the door.
"Your silence is not exactly boosting my confidence," she said.
"Your confidence doesn't need boosting, Miss Fisher."
She grinned at him, and then promptly dropped her lock-pick. "Blast," she swore, stooping down to grasp for it on the floor. Her hand tugged Jack's, and her head bumped against his knees, knocking her hat off. He staggered a little, trying to give her room, and the brooms shifted and clattered around them.
"Sorry," he apologised.
"You're standing on it," Miss Fisher said, rapping her knuckles gently against the toe of his shoe. He took another step and accidentally tugged her sideways, and she toppled into the brooms with a curse decidedly less restrained than her previous one.
"Sorry," Jack blurted again, reaching down to help her up.
Jack was not a clumsy man. Military precision and careful consideration were some of the traits he was most proud of within himself. He liked discipline and self-restraint. And it was important he held himself with a certain air of decorum — a Detective Inspector needed to command respect.
But when Miss Fisher was around, all of those things he held so close, and which seemed such inherent and important parts of him, seemed to disappear entirely. With Miss Fisher, it seemed more and more that Jack was a man who rode rollercoasters, chased suspects on motorcycles, and popped Champagne corks before dinner.
Phryne Fisher was a dangerously fun woman to know, and Jack's resistance had been slipping ever since their first case.
She gave a squeal suddenly, a noise he'd never heard her make before, and she toppled against his legs, frantically dusting her neck and shoulders with her free hand. Jack found himself lurching into a bent position as she tugged at the handcuffs, and the brooms clattered and fell again, spiderwebs ripping into loose, drifting threads which reached out and clung to his hair and face.
"Jack!" she shrieked.
He pulled her up and steadied her, grasping her hand securely. "Redback?" he asked breathlessly, suddenly worried.
"I don't know," she gasped.
"Were you bitten?"
"No." She shuddered and stomped her feet theatrically. "Blasted things."
"Did you get your pick?" he asked, reminded that he had been standing on it just seconds earlier.
She blinked up at him, her hair in complete disarray, dark mascara smudged under her eyes. "I suggest we escalate step two so that it becomes step one, and step one shall become step two." She widened her eyes at him in a way that made his stomach swoop; he felt as though he were still on the rollercoaster at Luna Park.
She had clung to his hand then, too.
"Given the circumstances," he said, "I think that is an excellent suggestion." Anything to get some space between them again.
Jack was sweating — the cupboard was small and their body heat was more than enough to turn it into a stuffy, airless place. Miss Fisher kept herself close to him, trying to avoid the walls and the cluttered broom handles.
Jack threw his weight heavily against the door. It barely rattled. Darn it, he thought helplessly, his shoulder ringing with the impact.
Miss Fisher kicked it rather half-heartedly. "Damn thing!" she said aloud.
Jack suppressed a grin. "If you find your pick, I may be able to lift the latch from in here." He bent down to squint through a small gap between the wall and the door. He could see the latch lying across the bracket, he just needed something slender enough and long enough to fit through the gap so he could lift it.
The handcuffs tugged at his wrist as Miss Fisher crouched down to try and find the lock-pick again. She swayed and wobbled against his legs. "I hope you throw the book at this young man," she said, sounding rather under duress.
"I was of the impression you were rather fond of societal misfits taking opportunities as they come," he quoted back at her.
"I am," she answered breathlessly, "but there is a line between opportunity and laziness."
"There's a line between opportunity and theft," Jack answered. "They aren't synonymous."
She swayed against his knees again, toppling sideways with a gasp, hastily brushing her hand against her cheek. "Is this the most spider-infested environment in Melbourne?" she asked, sounding frantic. "Is this where spiders are brought into the world, to spin their webs and grow their eight legs and eight eyes before they march out to hide themselves inside the homes of innocent —"
"Perhaps I should try to find it," Jack interrupted gently.
Thunder crashed outside as he carefully crouched down beside Miss Fisher. There seemed no space between them, everywhere Jack tried to move there seemed to be a cobweb or a broom handle or Miss Fisher, who seemed to shine in the dim light — her eyes, her glossy hair, the embroidery on the neckline of her dress. Her skin seemed to glow at him, like an invitation to touch and run his fingertips over her.
He clenched his hands tightly into fists. The sooner they got out into open space again, the better.
"Get a wriggle on, Inspector," she whispered frantically.
He must have widened his eyes a little, for she grinned at him, suggesting she knew exactly what he was thinking. He thought perhaps she always knew — she was far too clever for her own good, and Jack seemed far too transparent whenever he was with her.
She gazed at him, and he gazed back, feeling very much like a fly in a spider's web. He cursed the heat, he cursed the fact he had only fallen into deeper and deeper familiarity with Miss Fisher since they had first met, and he cursed the fact that he had continued to leave her silk scarf by his bed, so that he might fall asleep and wake again to the intoxicating scent of her perfume.
"Jack," she whispered. She swayed towards him only slightly, but that was all it took to tip the balance.
He kissed her.
It was not the adrenaline-fuelled kiss he remembered with the scent of strong coffee and buttered croissants. It was not the deep kiss of intent he had often imagined while leaving her house with the taste of scotch still warm on his tongue. It was not the hesitant, soft kiss he had considered placing upon her on her birthday.
It was overwhelming. He felt drunk, like he had indulged in something altogether too good and too bad for him at the same time. Overhead, the thunder rolled and the rain fell, like the only acceptable way for all of this to happen was if it came with some kind of natural disaster: a break in the drought, rain pouring through all the open windows, the air crackling with tension.
In the back of his mind, as he tilted her mouth beneath his so that her lips parted and their kiss deepened again, the playing cards shuffled themselves to show glimpses of the Deputy Commissioner and newspaper print, the words improper and unsuitable being lectured upon him by stern superiors.
Her right hand, free from the encumbrance of the handcuffs, clutched at the front of his vest, pulling his buttons free with sheer force. He felt the heat of her palm slip between his vest and his shirt and he gasped and shivered, parting from her breathlessly, both of them breathing heavily in the enclosed space.
"I'm sorry," he said desperately, because he didn't know what else to say.
There seemed no oxygen left in the air. They knelt on the hard floor, clinging to one another and trying to catch their breath.
After a minute or so, Miss Fisher seemed to come to her senses. She trailed her fingers over the floor and closed them around the lock-pick she had dropped. She handed it to him wordlessly, her eyes looking very wide in the dim light.
Jack's hand shook as he slipped the pick through the gap in the door and lifted the latch. The door creaked open and fresh air blew over his damp skin, bringing temporary relief.
They staggered to their feet and out into the open again, still linked by the handcuffs between them.
"My pick?" Miss Fisher asked politely. She swayed a little, tugging his hand back into hers and lacing her fingers between his rather intimately.
He handed it to her and swallowed past the ache in his throat. He glanced her up and down. The knees of her stockings were ripped and dirtied, and cobwebs clung to her dress and her hair. Her hat was still on the floor in the cupboard, and her hair was in complete disarray. She had smudges of dust from head to toe. He wished he didn't find it all so beautiful.
"And now, step two," she declared. She sounded utterly delighted with herself, and Jack didn't think it had anything to do with escaping the cupboard.
He found his own confidence returning slowly. The fresh air seemed to be doing wonders for him — or perhaps it had been the kiss, which had been reduced from an intense shock to a pleasant hum which now left him with a feeling of gratifying satisfaction.
She bent over the handcuffs again. "I confess I'll be sorry to be parted from you," she said. "Who could have guessed that being handcuffed to a Detective Inspector would be so much fun?"
He fought a self-indulgent grin. "I can't say I've ever thought handcuffs to be much fun, Miss Fisher."
"Surely your mind is now changed?" she asked, giving him a sly look out of the corner of her eye.
"There are some people who are more fun in handcuffs than others, I suppose."
"Don't act like you've never thought about placing me in handcuffs, Jack."
His throat went dry. "I've certainly been tempted to arrest you," he said carefully.
"You have arrested me," she reminded him.
"Fat lot of good it did," he said. "Do you ever think back upon such occasions and consider a lesson learned? A danger heeded, perhaps?"
She beamed at him. "Not particularly. I'm not a danger-heeding kind of woman."
"No, you're not," he said, aware that he sounded rather fond. He hesitated for a moment before he admitted, "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Nor would I," she declared and, with a pleased look on her face, she unlocked the cuffs from around his wrist.
Jack immediately took a step back and drew a deep breath, though the damage appeared done. He could still feel her presence, like she was a precious metal and he was magnetically drawn to her core.
She leaned closer to him again, though there were no restrictions on their space which required her to do so. "Breaking the rules is almost always exciting," she said.
An open invitation to kiss her again, if there ever was one, and yet Jack couldn't quite bring himself to do it, as much as he wanted to. As much as he knew she wanted him to. All he could do was gaze back at her, feeling rather helpless by the entire situation.
Like walking a tightrope over a perilous drop, Jack remained steady. "We have a criminal to chase after," he reminded her. Trying to steer them back onto the course they'd been on not an hour before. A course less tumultuous than one with frantic kisses in darkened, spider-infested cupboards.
"He has a ticket for the five o'clock overnight train to Albury," Miss Fisher said. "Bert and Cec are already at the station to stop him."
"You didn't think to alert the police to this information?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and wondering how on earth she'd managed to know all of this.
"I'm sure Dot has paid a visit to Hugh by now," she said innocently. "He's more than capable of making the arrest if we don't happen to get there in time." She looked at him expectantly. Waiting.
The storm made itself known again. Thunder crashed once more, and the rain continued to fall, drumming like a thousand coins upon the roof above them. The sound was deafening, and yet it couldn't drown out the sound of Jack's heartbeat.
Miss Fisher's hand crept over the front of his vest, which was still mostly unbuttoned. The heat of her hand seeped through his shirt and, as her touch upon him grew more insistent, Jack found himself bowing his head towards her, lowering his lips to hers and kissing her again.
It felt electric, like the lightning outside had drawn them together, racing through Jack's nerves, sparking in his fingertips and up and down his spine. Kissing her was overwhelming, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from encouraging her to further unbutton his vest and his shirt, so that her bare skin might touch his.
"We shouldn't," he gasped, breaking the kiss and finding that he had cupped her face in his hands, his fingers buried in the glossy softness of her hair.
Her eyes were dark and wide, and Jack's ego told him he must have been doing a rather good job of kissing her, for she looked almost as stunned as he felt.
"You should know very well by now that telling me not to do something doesn't work," she said breathlessly. She curled her hands into his shirt and pulled him back to her; he felt the fabric tighten over his back and his shoulders and he followed it instinctively, bending to kiss her again.
"I'm sure if we took our time returning to the station, Constable Collins will have done most of the work for you," she murmured persuasively. "Made the arrest, obtained the confession, started the paperwork…"
"What are you suggesting, Phryne?" Jack asked quietly.
"That there are better ways to spend a rainy afternoon," she whispered, and he felt the slightest graze of her teeth against his bottom lip. His stomach swooped sharply and his fingers tightened upon her without thought.
She grinned at him. "You don't still have my scarf by any chance, do you?" she asked.
Jack blinked at her, feeling a little dazed. "Yes, uh… Yes, it's in my bedroom."
Her smile was one of utter delight, her hair mussed around her face, cobwebs still clinging to the dark strands. "Excellent," she said. "Silk scarves are far more comfortable than handcuffs, Jack." She took his tie in her hand and tugged it, causing him to follow helplessly. "Allow me to demonstrate."