In the morning, Phryne prioritizes. Something sizzles close to Mr. Butler's hand; sound of footsteps upstairs. No menace to it, this morning. Between cases.
Although most people wouldn't assume it of her, Phryne has a deft hand for prioritizing. Outwardly, she is a chaos of silks and a passing cloud of perfume. Inside, her mind is tidy as Jack's desk. Priorities keep the heart well in hand and the investigation moving.
Priorities. To-do lists. A few closely guarded routines—you'd never hear Phryne admit to having them, but she does. Coffee. Dot hands Phryne a warm grin and a hot cup.
Phryne puts family—adopted and otherwise—rather closer to the top of her list than the public would assume, too.
Justice is up towards the top, as well. No one knows that better than Jack.
Jack. They'd locked eyes over countless corpses. Privately, she'd say there is heat there beyond anger. But there is anger, too, righteous anger. They both feel it when they discover another broken body. A brutalized woman, often. There but for the grace of God go Phryne, Dottie, Jane. Anger, Jack and she share. Another helpless victim, another cover-up—one could grow numb from it if it weren't for the hot anger in her blood, the cold anger in his.
She dreamt, after the Spiritualist case, that they were figures in the Tarot. One of them with a sword, the other holding the scales, or both sharing a throne, watching a hangman set his noose.
But enough of that. Doesn't do to be maudlin.
Privately, she thinks about him. Not that privately, even. Everyone knows. Even Aunt Prudence knows there's something there, that's why she's always throwing herself in the way of it.
What's between them almost feels more tawdry because it's unconsummated.
Phryne. Tawdry. When was the last time she'd felt tawdry? Her. Tawdry. One had to laugh at oneself. Laughable. Sex. Bubbles in a glass of champagne. All Cole Porter's turns of phrase for it. Delightful, delicious. A sexual liaison is easy to brush off. Just acknowledge it. Breezily. With a flip of the scarf.
But Jack. She's not yet so easy about Jack. And not just for the sake of his career. His priorities; she rarely considers them. She tries not to.
With Jack, it almost feels indecent to speak of it precisely because it's not indecent. Because she doesn't know quite what to say about them. About what they are to one another.
What would it be like, even? Not the first time she's travelled down that road.
Cec, Bert, hello. They respect her reverie this morning and blow in and out of the kitchen. She's imagined sex with them, too. Bert: Playful. Jokes. The act itself unadorned. Cec: Gentle. Quiet. Warm. A giver, probably, more than a taker.
Jack, however.
The worst thing about imagining being in bed with Jack is her sneaking suspicion that she just doesn't know. Would he be generous or domineering? He's both. Can a man be both, at the same time? Who has the power between the two of them? Does he like how she takes the lead in their cases, or would he rather, in their intimate moments, the tables be more traditionally turned?
She honestly can't say. And that's rare. She's tried the usual means of sussing it out: Dancing; Banter; Jauntily pointed asides about her range of preferences. The clues don't all fit, somehow. He's still a mystery.
Phryne dips her finger into the pot of cream by her cup. She slowly licks it off. No one looking; just for her. To feel her own tongue against her skin.
Desire, unfulfilled. Obviously. That's a priority. Life without the thrill of jouissance not quite worth living, is it? When she feels that lack, she bumps sex up to the top of her list. It doesn't usually stay there long. It's an easy task to cross off.
She finds taking a lover in the middle of a mystery is a convenient means of balancing her priorities. Easier to work alongside Jack without that edge to things. Easier to prioritize.
Jack Jack Jack. A litany of Jack-thoughts over her morning coffee, who has the time! But she is, after all, at her leisure. And leisure is also a hard-won thing, a thing earned, a thing she is finally in a place to make her priority.
If she considered it from a certain angle, he's the one that's wooing her. God knows she gets bored when the chase ends. And he does draw out the chase. Does he know that? Does he know how much she enjoys it?
She doesn't like toys. She likes men who can play the game along with her, men who hold their own or at least know when to quit. Is Jack playing along with her? Are they well-matched? She used to think she had the advantage; now, she's not so sure.
Right. No need to think of it that way. They're equals. When he's not there, she misses him. And he misses her. They miss each other. It's equal. That's simple. Why over-complicate things? Phryne doesn't overcomplicate things. Phryne fears she may be overcomplicating things. Unlike her.
What does he even want from her? She knows what he doesn't want. She's afraid, sometimes, that if she kissed him he'd stop loving her—if that's what he feels. She likes and loathes that he might be in love with her. She likes and loathes that she might be in love with him.
Easier. It should be easier. Breezier. A scent on the air. A silk shift pooling on the carpet.
Too much of reverie; not enough of priorities, this morning. Must remember her priorities.
Jack makes his own coffee. The scent of it, he anticipates. He always breathes in the steam from his coffee, first. Deep into his lungs. Enjoys it. Enjoyment. Here again, putting the coffee on, he finds room for enjoyment.
Jack Robinson's morning routine is a mix of exertion and languor. His favorite combination, really; a chase followed by a stiff drink, slowly consumed.
His officers would have guessed he was an early riser out of discipline. They never imagined that he set those hours aside for pure delectation, the simple enjoyment of taking and spending the time.
There is the paper to be read; later, not now. Now, coffee on. Now, Stretching. Exercises, on the bare floor. Joy, the feeling of blood rushing to his hands. Breath coming faster now. Jack likes the strength in his arms, the feel of the wooden floor under his hands. Press-ups. 100 of them. He sets the target and he hits it. Like he was trained.
Rhythm. Working. He remembers cycling for miles and miles and miles, his body moving like a steam engine, pistons working. Working perfectly. Knowing he could ride for miles more, perfectly in control, exhilarated. Can't help remembering, now. But he enjoys it. Bitterness is gone.
There, again. Enjoyment.
Up, jumps to his feet, enjoying his body. He feels young. Knows he isn't. Lets Collins do the running, some days, but in the morning he is young. Alone, no one to tell him otherwise. Ah. Breathing, enjoyment.
He's still alive. He wishes he owned a piano for one giddy moment. Play a tune. He chuckles at the thought of it, the neighbor woman who likes to look in on him, what she'd think, "Let's Misbehave" at six in the morning.
Not the slow version he played for Miss Fisher but at speed.
"Miss Fisher." He says it aloud. Enjoys it. The sibilance of it; silk scarf, seductive smile, small surprise. Miss Fisher.
Maybe he'll see her today.
One-two-step-to-the-coffee-machine. A small slide, a turn, a bow to the percolator. Enjoying it.
That's enough now, Jack, calm down. He clears his throat in the empty room.
But then again, the thought of Miss Fisher and the downhill descent on a wooden track at Luna Park. What a good idea that was, Jack. Her bob askew, her grin askew, her stole askew. You clasped her hand with faux-solemnity. Said something like "unto the breach"; she rolled her eyes, you got a rise out of her. Gravity. Both your hearts in your throats for a moment.
Miss Fisher. Miss Phryne Fisher. Mug to your nose, eyes closed, breathing in. Enjoying it.
Has she got a middle name, a bit of Classical frippery, Iphigenia?
Phryne.
First sip of coffee. Ah. Over the paper—noting in the Society pages a mention of Aunt Prudence and some charity, of a somewhat suspect society marriage between a rather dazzling gold digger and a rather plain gold mine.
A little bit of a Buster Keaton routine with his hat on the hat stand and then out the door. The spring in Jack's step must be dampened, wouldn't do, but nonetheless. It remains elsewhere.
Would he kiss her today, he wondered? "Is it too late?," he'd asked her, coming to her for a nightcap. "Never," she'd said.
Then, he has time. He can take the time to enjoy it.
Phryne opens her front door and squares her shoulders. A call came in. The much-talked about society marriage of Delphinia Merrick and Carlton Krebs ended in blood, to no one's surprise. But the widower's grief did surprise her. He'd called Phryne in tears.
Damn. Her gloves are missing a button. It would bother her all day. The suede then, to match the hat. Calling back to the house, "Dottie, would you fetch my black suede gloves from upstairs? Three buttons, at the wrist."
She turns and there, across the street, is Inspector Jack Robinson striding toward her from his police issue vehicle.
A rather long stride, it is indeed.
Still striding.
Showing no signs of slowing in his approach. Or stopping.
He's taking the stairs two at a time, now. My.
And here he is.
Inches away.
Practically pressed against her.
"Miss Fisher," he breathes. "I suspect we're heading to the same place."
A little closer and he'd be saying that against her mouth. She waits for a quip to come to her. It doesn't.
Is she speechless, Jack wonders. How satisfying. He puts his hand on the small of her back and there, yes, a definite shiver. He enjoys it.
He's enjoying it. She can tell. Musn't give him the satisfaction. Give him the grin, the look from under the eyelashes. Priorities.
"It'll be faster if I drive," she says, and steps in front.