David Levithan's 'The Lover's Dictionary' is one of my favourite books of all time. It's a story told through a series of definitions, and it's written in this magical, lyrical fashion that embodies everything I could ever dream of creating when I grow up. In my old fandom, I used the words/definitions from the corresponding twitter account to make little one-shots, and because I am a one trick pony hack, I'm doing it all over again. I know there's already a wonderful definition styled trend in this fandom (which I thoroughly enjoy), but hopefully this is different enough that I'm not stepping on any toes. I promise that is not at all my intention.
For RositaLG. Because nothing kicks my lazy muse into high gear like vacation countdown time. It's weird, I'm rusty, yada yada, I promise they will not all be this angsty.
Macabre, adj.: You keep the ravens in your head in a loose cage, allowing them to whisper their worst-case darkness between the bars.
Their latest murder investigation leads them to a new drug trafficking ring. Phryne beats Jack and his men to the location, and doesn't wait for them. Naturally. She exhibits far more patience than usual but one can only ask so much of a person and anyway, it's poor luck that gets her caught; she picks the locks and slips in through the rear door at the precise moment that the guard she's been watching exits the building to relieve himself in the alley. Via the same door.
He's quicker on the draw than she is, she's loathe to admit. She manages to land one solid blow before she's dragged inside, and then she's outnumbered. The needle is emptied of its contents before Phryne registers that she's been pricked. She tries to remain lucid; counts countries, fashion designers, her favourite cities, but they are all quick to fall from her grasp. Collingwood. She remembers living in Collingwood. Born in Collingwood. A sister, she had a sister.
No. Better not to dwell on that.
London. Her second home. She misses the sun and it's always cold and she's so often sad, though she tries very hard not to be.
There's a war; she can't recall those cities. Too many. Move on. France. She falls in love with Paris. With the people. With life. She's free. And then she isn't.
No. This is an equally bad place to pause.
After Paris comes-
After Paris comes-
By the time Jack bursts through the hidden entrance to the cellars, she can no longer distinguish past and present. She's trapped – for the second time – in a year of her life she would rather erase entirely.
"Phryne!"
The room is empty save for the two of them, and she is afraid. Jack hesitates, analyses. Because unfiltered fear is not a face she wears often. She's tucked into the far corner. Still. Unnaturally still. And her eyes do not track him as he approaches. When Jack kneels in front of her, she continues to stare off into a place he cannot see.
"Phryne," he repeats.
There's no answer. Her pupils are dilated and he clenches his jaw. God only knows how much liquid opium is currently in her system. Or how long she's been under its influence. His instinct is to lift her; carrying her to the car seems more efficient than trying to help her get there under her own power, and his mind is racing with worst case overdose scenarios. But when his arm slips under her knees, she is no longer still.
"No."
"We have to go. Come on-
"No."
He tries to catch her eye. To get her to see him. "It's me; it's Jack. You're safe."
"Jack." She repeats.
Her fear fades into confusion and he tries (fails) to give her a reassuring smile. "Shall we try again?"
She doesn't answer, but she doesn't fight him either. Passive compliance does not become of her, but in this instance, Jack is willing to accept it.
"Alright. Off we go, Miss Fisher," he says in a light tone.
It is not remotely convincing. She doesn't notice.
Phryne's head falls heavily against Jack's chest. She's dead weight in his arms and he's struck by a sense of deja-vu, but never mind all of that now. Phryne Fisher is resilient. She survived the last time, and this will be no different.
(it is different. They are different. They are so much more than they were, then)
He yells for Collins, brings him up to speed, and leaves him in charge, all in the span of three terse sentences tossed over his shoulder. Phryne stiffens when he steps into the alley, her spine going suddenly rigid and then arching until he nearly drops her. Jack glances down the street; he can see the police car now. They're close. So close. But he has no choice but to lower her to the ground.
"Phryne." Her teeth are chattering. Christ. He grips her arms firmly. "I need you to help me."
She shakes her head. She's sweating and shivering at the same time, and Jack feels his adrenaline climbing as she slips away. For all her adventures, it has been many years since Phryne has habitually abused stronger substances. A low tolerance and forceful circumstances make for a deadly combination. He does not know how to help her. How to make this better. Does not know how to shield her from the enemy when it appears that – for now – the most pressing enemy is him.
"Phryne. Look at me. Focus."
Acting on reflex, his hand touches her chin in an effort to guide her eyes to his. Acting on stronger reflex, she flinches.
The shout commanding Jack not to touch her reaches his ears just before there is blinding pain in his thigh.
She's stabbed him. That dagger of hers has been drawn in an instant and she's stabbed him. He grits his teeth and grapples for the knife – more concerned with her safety than his, though there is a small amount of concern for his safety as well – and she moves from instinct to blind panic. Cries out as she lashes desperately against an enemy that is and is not him. Jack swallows his rage. Pushes it down until he cannot reach it. He can't undo what's been done to her, but what he wouldn't give…
He's stronger than she is, though she is scrappy as hell and the victory (if one can call it that. He can't) does not come easily. She curls into herself when she cannot free her arms from the grip pinning them to her sides. Her knees meet her chest and she shakes uncontrollably, muttering words to herself that he cannot quite hear.
"You're breaking my heart, love," he says softly.
She doesn't respond. Doesn't acknowledge the outside world again until Dr. MacMillan takes over her care and tosses Jack out of the hospital room without ceremony. Mac is a physician first. Phryne's oldest and dearest friend second. Jack considers himself lucky to have somehow stumbled into her top ten.
...
Phryne stretches her legs across the window seat, covering her preferred side along with the space she now considers Jack's. She flips the page of her book; it's a newly purchased – not to mention, particularly scandalous – piece of erotica gifted to her by Mac. But even this cannot set her world right-side up again.
It's been three days since her release from the hospital. Four days since she woke up to Jack asleep in a chair beside her unfamiliar bed. Five days since Mac saved her life. Again. Six months since she returned from London and met Jack in an airfield for the second time. Six months since the hangar was as far as they could make it before a frantic coupling.
She's been staunchly avoiding him since Mac cleared her to go home. She can't remember what she had said, what she had done. She's relied entirely on Mac's version of the events (both first hand, and second hand) and can only imagine the heavily edited version Jack would have supplied her. She wants to pretend this never happened. Knows Jack will not make any attempt to force her to discuss her past and yet can't fully bury the small piece of her still stuck in Paris, wanting to explain how he had taken all her pieces so gradually, one day there hadn't been anything left and she hadn't been able to remember how to be the sort of person who would go about getting them back. Hadn't been able to remember if she had ever been that sort of person to begin with. How do you confide in a close friend, when your monster had been their friend first? Phryne Fisher had drank and danced and worked and socialised until she had been sure it was worth any lows. Then he had taken away the work. And the dancing. And the friends.
He kicks a stray cat squarely in the ribs. A small, skittish thing the colour of charcoal that happened to get in his way moments after he had kicked her in a similar fashion. She hears its small bones crack and knows its pain. Just like that, they are bonded. Les deux chats noirs with a shared abuser, and this is her turning point. Nursing an injured black cat back to health because she feels responsible for its plight, for being the spark to René's rage that had led to this.
(she has never learned to regulate guilt. Has never learned to accept the bad in the world she believes to be her fault. She still cannot help seeking atonement for all perceived wrong doings)
And when she sees a woman in the market, rich, but far too dull to have ever fired – or even had need of – a weapon, brandishing a pearl handled golden gun and laughing amongst her friends, the part of Phryne that knows how to steal, knows how to see something she desires and just as quickly take it, picks the woman's purse the moment the gun has been tucked away. And then disappears with it just as quickly.
There may be hundreds of pieces of Phryne Fisher missing, plundered, but she has just recovered one of them and Collingwood Pirates know how to take what's owed them.
The gun stays hidden under a floorboard for weeks and they heal together until one day she accidentally leaves the apartment door ajar. And if a small, skittish, charcoal coloured cat can escape a tyrant, so can she.
The golden gun is taken from beneath the floorboards. All her things fit into a small grocery sack with room to spare. René does not return in the time between the cat's escape and hers, but she would have shot him if he had. She is sure of it. She is sure of it every day onward until a showdown years later in a café so much like the one in which they met.
In Café Replique, she hesitates.
She is no longer sure. Instead, she is glad she never had to find out. He is dead and she is not, and this, most days, is enough.
Phryne is pulled from her musings by a knock on the door. She draws her legs into her body, already defensive. She has no desire to speak to anyone today. Especially not Jack. But if she deals with this now, she can spend the next several days alone without the possibility of another drop-in hanging over her head.
"Ah, Inspector." Mr. Butler, professional and polite as always. "I'm afraid Miss Fisher isn't receiving visitors today."
Bless his heart. From the pause that follows, Phryne can tell that Jack is not altogether surprised by the rebuke. But he has always been one to take such stumbles (mostly) in stride.
"Of course. If you could tell her that I stopped by-
Phryne's jaw tightens and she passes through the parlour into the front hall.
"It's alright, Mr. B."
The faithful employee bows his head in deference and leaves the room without another word. Jack and Phryne share an awkward silence. He's still standing on the porch, and she can't quite bring herself to invite him in.
Eventually, she clears her throat and speaks first.
"Mac tells me I owe you an apology. And that my criminal record now bears the new addition of assault of an officer with a deadly weapon."
Jack allows himself a small smile. "She's half right. I assumed you would wear the charge like a badge of honour and left if for Queen and country to see. You've been released on your own recognizance; just be sure to show up for your hearing."
Phryne smiles back and is pleasantly surprised to discover that it is not forced. "I'll do my best to clear my schedule, but I can't make any promises, I'm afraid. I could apologise now and save us the time in the future-
"You don't owe me an apology, Phryne," Jack interrupts with conviction. "You don't owe me anything."
And that's where he's wrong. He's so wrong. But the words get stuck in her throat.
He's favouring his right side. Phryne doesn't know how it has taken her so long to notice. She swallows her guilt. Tries very hard not to imagine the bandaging hidden by his trousers.
"Come in, Jack." She steps back and brings the door with her. "You should be resting."
He's already shaking his head. "No. I don't wish to intrude. I just needed to be sure you were… you."
"And am I?" She can't help asking. Some days, she feels more dimensionless than others.
"Yes," Jack responds emphatically. "Very much so."
"I don't feel it," she confesses.
"You're very strong."
He means it. Physically and mentally. All others fade into shadows cast by the strength of Phryne Fisher.
"Not always." The smile is sad.
Somehow it cuts him deeper than no smile at all.
"No one is," he rebuts. "But you certainly know how to make it count."
"Please," she hesitates, clears her throat, tries again (though nothing changes), "please don't call me. Even if there is a murder investigation. I'll find you when I'm ready."
Jack nods. Takes an unconscious step back from the door. "As you wish, Miss Fisher."
The initial raid is carried out without a hitch. The constables follow Jack's clipped orders and divide themselves between collecting evidence and cuffing their many suspects. 'Relaxed' would be too strong a word, but the worst is over (should be over) and the adrenaline fueled taste of metal in Jack's mouth has begun to recede.
And then the room is burning.
Jack throws himself to the ground and covers his head to shield it from falling debris (the passing of years are not enough to dull instincts sharpened by suffering). A second explosion sounds, closer, and he pulls himself along on the floor, trying to determine the source without making himself an easy target.
"Collins!" He shouts over the commotion. Receives no answer.
Christ. Who in their right mind would-
Another blast sounds, close enough for Jack to feel the heat of it on his face.
"Collins!"
"Here, Sir!"
Jack swallows his relief. Stands and assesses. The smoke is dense; it's difficult to distinguish colleague from fleeing foe. All their careful planning, and they've descended once again into total anarchy. As the smoke begins to clear, he grabs a nearby gang member and pins him to the floor, and he finally makes out Hugh standing a few feet away – looking especially bewildered, but dutifully maintaining his grip on the suspect he had been holding when the explosions began.
There is shattered glass everywhere and small fires burning. Alone, they are harmless, but they are many, and they are growing, and it will not be long until the structure of rotted wood is engulfed in flame. Jack breathes too deeply and pays for it. Once he begins to cough, it becomes a fight to stop.
"Right." He rasps roughly. "Everyone outside, before the roof caves in on us."
It's a rival gang foolishly acting on an opportunity to rid themselves of both their competition and the local constabulary. There are three casualties; one suspect dies from burn injuries, the other two are gunned down when they flee the building amidst the chaos of the first explosion.
Jack's relief that all of his men will return home to their families with only superficial cuts and bruising, outweighs the guilt that accompanies his relief.
As he joins the frantic attempts of City South to restore order, a dull pain registers in his left arm and he looks down to find his palm full of glass, and a somewhat disconcerting burn blister creeping across the back of his hand. It should hurt a lot more than it does; he knows that much. He protects it as best as he can until the situation is back under police control, and then it's quickly cleaned, stitched and bandaged by the attending physician.
Jack can feel the pain of it now. And though he knows this is a good thing, he could do without it.
He's barely through the front door to the station when he hears the line in his office begin to ring. The late hour means it's likely either the Commissioner or Phryne, but one look at Collins, whose head has turned toward the sound and then back to Jack, guilt-ridden, narrows it down.
He can't fault Collins for promptly telephoning his wife, but there are days he wishes Mrs. Collins and Miss Fisher did not keep quite such close company.
Jack's eyes roll skyward and he walks purposefully into his office, removing his jacket as he picks up the telephone.
"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."
"You've been holding out on me, Jack."
"And a good evening to you, Miss Fisher." Jack drops into his chair.
"More than twenty arrests and you didn't think to invite me?"
"I suspect my senior constable and your companion may have exaggerated tonight's series of events."
"Hmm." He can hear her blasé scepticism. "Lucky for you, I've already got plans for this evening. And I have no real interest in the paperwork side of a case."
He smiles. It's genuine. Stretches across his face in a manner he so rarely permits. He's glad to hear her voice. Glad for this small reminder of what his life has become when it could have ended very differently. He stops fidgeting with the papers on his desk. Grounds himself in her brightness and the throbbing in his hand. His heart slows.
But the peace is as short-lived as the phone call.
He's at the station for hours; the reports and evidence cataloguing take many times over what he had anticipated. Senseless criminals committing senseless crimes. He sends his staff home a little after midnight, save for the constables originally scheduled for the overnight shift. There's a storm beginning; he can hear the distant rumblings of thunder. He hopes the electricity holds out long enough for him to finish his work. The reports take longer than they should; Jack, who is always so calm, so still, is restless. Cannot see any task through to completion without losing focus along the way. The front door slams and he is listening, listening, on guard. Nothing comes of it – as he should have expected. He clears his throat and, with some effort, brings his attention back to the documents on the desk.
It's pouring rain by the time Jack calls it quits. The cells are far too loud for him to sleep here tonight; full of prisoners waiting to be transferred to City Central. Wardlow is closer to the station than his home; it's late enough that even Phryne will be asleep, and though he doesn't make a habit of showing up at her house unannounced, this is his policy, not hers.
A few hours, he promises himself. A few hours. He'll have come and gone before she wakes. He is tightly wound, but perhaps, if she is still – as she so seldom is – he can find a way to rest in kind.
It isn't meant to be. Phryne, as it turns out, is just getting in as well. They pull up to Wardlow within seconds of one another. He's fumbling for his key when she steps out of the cab, shoes dangling from her fingertips. The rain is falling even harder now; heavy sheets blowing hard and fast. She's soaked before she reaches the relative shelter of her doorstep, but she's tipsy enough not to be bothered. She doesn't spot him right away, and Jack's chest tightens a little. The way it does every time he gets to just watch her.
"Jack!" Phryne grins as she meets him on the step. "This is a pleasant surprise. A little past your usual bed time."
He gives her a tight smile in return. "A little past yours as well, Miss Fisher."
A combination of darkness and alcohol keeps her from examining his face too closely.
"Please come in, Inspector." She drinks him in from head to toe and back again as she unlocks the door, and Jack knows sleep is not what she has in mind.
Their wet clothing is not easily discarded. It clings to their bodies, resists their pulls. The delicate stitching of Phryne's dress tears easily – Jack is certain she'll be cross about it in the morning. It's for the best that he'll be gone by then.
He gasps when she inadvertently clutches his injured hand. He tries to pull away, but he is not quite fast enough. Phryne's unfocused, aroused gaze sharpens and she does not let go.
"What happened?"
"I found myself on the receiving end of a homemade incendiary device." Jack answers dryly.
"Sounds exciting."
"I'm sure you would have enjoyed it."
He kisses her deeply. Slips his hand over the cold, damp skin of her inner thigh and persuades her to postpone her interrogation. The rest of their clothes drop heavily onto the carpet, and Jack spends his restlessness. Pours his energy into her. Tries to forget his unease.
...
He wakes up gasping. Struggling to find air, coughing in vain efforts to expel damp earth clogging his throat and filling his lungs. His fellow soldiers are dead and those who aren't are dying. Around him, dying. With him, dying. They are, all of them, dying. There's heavy fire to one side and the trench begins to collapse. He grabs his nearest comrade, pulls. They will not sink. Death cannot have them all.
Thunder cracks above him. The storm is close and the air reeks of ozone. The lightning is blinding – not a quick burst, but long flashes that fully illuminate the luxurious bedding, the intricate walls, the modern paintings…
"Jack."
He's already coming back to himself, but the sound of her voice, gentle, steady, brings reality crashing down on him at a speed that sends his stomach lurching. His breathing is fast and shallow, and in the ensuing silence, he realises that his good hand is clenching her wrist so hard his fingers are aching. He can only imagine how her wrist feels. He lets go immediately. Phryne gives it a few careful, absent rotations without taking her eyes from his. The lighting and thunder are falling over one another now; it is not difficult to make out her face, despite the late hour.
She opens her mouth to speak but he is out of the bed before she can make a sound. For someone so still, his movements can be startling. Extraordinary. Even when the observer knows him intimately.
"I should go."
"Jack." She sits up fully in the bed as he stiffly moves around the room, collecting his clothes from where they have been haphazardly spread across her floor. The sheets pool around her waist and she makes no move to cover her bare chest. It's unlikely – in this situation – that it's a tactic, but Jack is trapped and embarrassed and it's easier to think (unkindly) that it's a conscious effort on her part to manipulate him into staying.
"I'm sorry I woke you, Miss Fisher."
It slips off his tongue and she looks slighted. Her societal name has been used more often than she can count within the walls of her bedroom, but it has always been a part of their dance. A flirtation more than anything else (barring that one time they had not been alone. When they had had her companion and his right hand man and a rather large spider for company). The formality stings.
Jack is dressing at record speed, though slower than he would like. Slower than he could manage with two fully functional hands. He hesitates briefly as he watches her expression change, but he shakes his head and pushes onward.
"Jack, the city is a few minutes of rain away from floating off entirely. You can't go out there. Just come back to bed."
He shakes his head again. Can't bring himself to answer her with words. Does not look back. The walls rattle as the door slams. It's impossible to know whether it's him or the thunder that is the cause. In any case, he's down the stairs and out of the house before she can think to follow him.
He hates to indulge her proclivity for dramatics, but the city is indeed underwater. He can barely see a step in front of him; driving a car would be suicide.
He is not quite at that point.
So he walks. His clothes have not been given time to fully dry from his last venture outdoors, and he's thoroughly soaked by the time he reaches the sidewalk. Nearly two hours pass before he reaches his house, though it feels like minutes. His fingers are too cold to possess the dexterity required to undo his buttons. Even his shoes prove impossible. He'd tear the damn things off but his hands won't cooperate enough to do that, either.
(though this does not stop him from trying. Failing. Trying again)
Teeth chattering, he simply collapses on the couch, wet clothes and shoes a problem he will most certainly find rattling tomorrow but cannot bring himself to care about enough to address tonight.
There's no healing from a war. Only thin scabbing. She has thickened the layer of coagulated blood but it remains discouragingly vulnerable to fresh tearing.
...
At the station later that morning, Jack burns his throat raw on cup after cup of scalding hot tea, and still cannot get warm. The dampness has seeped into his bones. He'll be lucky if this discomfort is the only consequence that comes from his poor decision making. He's stiff. Every interruption sets his teeth on edge.
He's half focused on his work, half calculating how to approach the next conversation he will have with Phryne. He can't control his subconscious and nightmares are not entirely without precedent, but this is the first time such a thing has happened while in her company. They are a strong pair; one of the (many) problems in his marriage following the war had been his inability to communicate in a manner in-depth enough to satisfy Rosie. Partially it had been to shield her from a new darkness within himself he had not yet learned to accept. From what he knew she was not ready to accept, regardless of claims to the contrary. Mostly, however, it had been for himself. There are few things worse than feeling boxed in a corner. Than being forced to discuss topics and concerns he would sooner ignore entirely.
Phryne has her own demons and they have an understanding. Unspoken, as the most important things between them are. But a line has been blurred and he cannot settle his unease.
It's barely past noon when the door swings open without so much as a cursory knock. He should be grateful to have made it this far into his day before her (inevitable) arrival, but it's still too soon.
"It's rather early in the day for you to be making your rounds, Miss Fisher," he says dryly.
She falls heavily into the chair across from him. Her every move attracts attention. It is a comforting consistency.
"Just making sure you're still alive," she responds lightly.
Jack shifts in his chair, but his expression remains neutral. "Are you quite satisfied?"
She studies him. Bright eyes unblinking. It's unnerving to be caught under her direct scrutiny.
"No."
He clears his throat; all these months (years. They aren't fooling anyone) and he is still caught off guard by her occasional quiet conviction.
Phryne blinks, and then she is as she had been when she first stormed his office. Airy. Blinding sun and equally blinding flirtation. "Come on. I'm taking you to lunch."
"I can't."
"You have to eat, Inspector."
"I can't." He's more insistent the second time, and she hesitates. But not for long. When her mouth opens to try and persuade him anew, he heads her off as gently as he can manage. "I have work to do, Phryne. I'll call you this evening."
It isn't a dismissal, exactly. But the effect is the same. They are experts at containing themselves. At shielding emotion until such time as it can be sorted in private.
They are good together. Some days they are better than others.
Phryne's gaze drops for less than a millisecond before she resumes her steady stare. "No need to call, Jack. Use your key when you're ready."
He nods and focuses intently on the open file in front of him. Their lives are so very entwined now, he is constantly balancing on the precipice between gratitude and fear. She's gone before he can decide which is stronger today.
It's been years, now. Weekend stays have evolved to weekday stays, to weeks-at-a-time stays. To nights in his own bed being few and far between. To the small house being his home in name only. It's a night like so many before it. Another night, another storm, two strong bodies spread across a large bed. Blankets kicked off and abandoned in the summer heat.
Dark dreams. Violence. Familiar foes that refuse to die with time. Phryne and Jack get older and their subconscious does not. It is quieter now, to be sure, but when it is awakened, triggered by something often trivial, the trauma is heavy and fierce as it had been decades before.
They are older. They are certain. Secure in This Thing between them they still do not name.
Jack wakes with a jolt. Phryne wakes with no clear memory of her dream but with wet cheeks that make it impossible to deny that something had been very wrong.
There are no words exchanged. A self-depreciating half smile. Fingers entwine, bridging the heat-induced space between their bodies. The moon is full, the curtains and windows wide open in (futile) efforts to catch a breeze. Jack takes advantage of the natural light and counts the smattering of freckles over her bare shoulders. Phryne studies the fluttering of his long, fair lashes. Acting on impulse, she releases a slow, concentrated breath in his direction just to watch the fine hairs move under her influence. Jack blinks in an almost offended sort of surprise, and his brow furrows.
The dark spell breaks.
"Why are you blowing on my face?"
His voice is gravelly with sleep and Phryne's stomach flips. He is so beautiful. But her voice – also rough from disuse – comes through strong and clear nevertheless. "I don't know what you're talking about," she answers primly.
"You don't."
"No, Jack."
His features are subdued and controlled as always. She would think he had lost interest in the conversation if she didn't know better. And she does know better. But it still comes as a shock when he inhales and exhales quite suddenly, returning the favour in a far less than subtle fashion.
She blinks furiously against the sudden invasion of air, laughing all the while. Nothing unspools her quite as easily as staid Detective Inspector Jack Robinson at play.
"Alright. You've made your point."
"For the time being, anyway," he mutters. "Heaven forbid you take a lesson to heart."
She pulls her hand away from his, freeing her fingers to trace the line of his sharp jaw and coaxing an indulgent smile in the process.
"You mean a great deal to me, Jack Robinson," she says.
The sincerity takes root in his chest. He wraps it up and stores it safely, to be reverently unbundled when he next needs it most.
"Likewise, Phryne Fisher."
He draws her into his chest out of habit, but it really is too hot and it is not long before they separate, slightly disgusted by the sticky air that has settled into their every pore. Their fingers meet in the space on the bed between their bodies, just-barely touching. Jack counts freckles. Phryne studies eyelashes. They sleep until morning.