Disclaimer: I don't want to own the rights to Phryne Fisher, I want to be her. Alas, I have so far achieved neither of those objectives.
Rating: Let's start with M, simply because things are going to progress quite quickly.
Pairings: The slow unraveling of our favorite Inspector Detector's self control when it comes to the beautiful female detective. Also Dottie and Hugh casual mentions.
Warnings: Dirty dreams, excessive drinking, central theme of power plays, gratuitous flirtation, and more as they come.
A/N: I'm only a little ways into Season 2, and this story takes off where I am in the show, so stick with me. Thanks so much for reading!
O Inspector! My Inspector!
"And that's when I said, 'excuse me, Vicar, I believe that dress goes on the other way around.'" Phryne paused in the doorway when she realized that, not only was Inspector Detector Jack Robinson not utterly enthralled with her tale of procuring the Moroccan liqueur in which they were about to imbibe, he was fast asleep.
A sleeping Jack looked at least five years younger, Phryne thought to herself. He was stretched across the settee, his feet dangling off the red velvet at a slightly unnatural angle, his head cradled in one hand, and the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his tired mouth.
Surely, the Inspector deserved a good rest. They'd only just finished a case that very evening, a double homicide and jewelry theft ring, and Lord only knew that she was exhausted – and Jack had to deal with all of the paperwork and criminal justice system nonsense in addition to actually solving the crime. Well, helping her solve the crime.
Phryne knew that she should probably wake him, at the very least to try get him to sleep in an actual bed, but he looked so peaceful, lying on the couch like that, and she knew that he didn't get a peaceful sleep nearly often enough.
Besides, she liked watching him, if only for a few moments. He was handsome, in an unexpected, almost quiet, sort of way. Though, bizarrely enough, Phryne had taken to comparing features of her more recent conquests to those of the man before her. She attributed the out-of-character behavior on the sheer amount of time she was spending in the Inspector's presence – a rather rare occurrence when it came to her and eligible men.
Jack shifted slightly, and some of his formally pressed hair fell over his eyes, giving him a boyish sort of appeal. He really wasn't old, barely a few years above herself, and yet, aged by war and crime and lost love, his face had lines etched deep in the skin, where none might exist on an older man. Phryne paused in that assessment – surely her own face showed a myriad of life experiences not shared by many.
A small smile crept up Jack's face, and Phryne had to wonder, as she took a sip of the liqueur they were meant to be share, if Jack was having good dreams. She was just about to consider the dangerous path of trying to understand when this man had become Jack to her, when said man began to speak – or rather, mumble.
"Good evening," he whispered, just audibly enough so that Phryne nearly spit out her drink before arranging her face perfectly to explain away why she had been watching him sleep – a concept she couldn't quite explain to herself, when she realized that he was still doing it.
Oh, she should really wake him now – something to keep the man from divulging every secret he'd ever had. But though her mind was racing, her body suddenly froze, and he spoke again.
"On the desk," he paused, mumbled something incoherent, and then whispered, his voice husky with sleep, "you bad girl." So they were those sort of dreams then. Her blood was racing now, and Phryne could feel a flush rising in her cheeks. It was one thing to indulge in your own nocturnal dalliances, and when lucky enough to be visited by those nighttime fantasies Phryne quite enjoyed them, always waking in a sunny mood.
It was quite another thing, however, to listen in on the subconscious desires of someone else, quite especially if that someone else were a friend – or, well, whatever they were, and a very proper gentleman, who, due to his profession, had the ability to lock her up if he ever found out.
"Do I have to handcuff you?" she heard him mumble. On second thought, he'd probably quite enjoy the locking up bit.
Strangely enough, Phryne could feel her own body responding to the Inspector's words. Her breasts were tingling slightly, and the flush on her cheeks had deepened. Her whole body was heating up from someone else's dirty dream. A traitorous part of her mind grabbed hold of the thought that her reaction might have had more to do with whose fantasy it was, rather than the dream itself.
Thankfully, that thought was interrupted by more from the budding Marquis de Sade copycat currently sprawled across her settee.
"Oh, Miss Fisher," she positively frozen when she heard her name, afraid that he'd woken to find her watching him sleep, even more afraid that he hadn't, and these were the thoughts that he'd never say awake. And then, in a tone of voice she had never heard Inspector Detector Jack Robinson use in all the time she had known him, a hungry growl, a husky, desperate demand, he said, "call me Inspector."
It would have been ridiculous had the situation been different, comical even. But the sensations shooting through Phryne's body at the Inspector's demand, and the flitting, hanging details that he'd been fantasizing about her, were utterly non-laughing topics, and ones she'd analyze later, no doubt. But right now there were more pressing matters.
"Inspector," she said, quite a bit more loudly than strictly necessary. He woke with a start, and then, seeing where he was, visibly settled.
"My apologies for falling asleep on your company," he said with a sleepy, sheepish smile. "May I request a rain-date?" She couldn't help but return his smile, despite all the words that were threatening to escape her traitorous mouth.
"Well, naturally," she said, "but you have to promise to listen to my story next time."
Jack put on a very solemn expression.
"Cross my heart," he said, and Phryne laughed.
"Don't let Dottie see you doing that," she said, feeling rather proud of how steady her voice, and how she was managing to actually look at his face. Okay, maybe just the top of his hairline, but the intent was certainly there. Jack didn't seem to notice, but merely shook his head.
"Knowing that the loyalty of my supposedly most faithful officer lies with his beloved, I'll be careful of it." He paused. "Are you quite alright, Miss Fisher? You look flushed."
At the use of her name, in a context quite different from just a few moments before, Phryne let out a surprised cough, rather alarming her companion.
"Just warm," she tried for air and fell rather short, by her own accounts. "It's toasty tonight." That would probably have worked better if it had not been early March, and the day had shown sun, rather than blustering wind and light drizzle.
"Indulging a bit on our own, are we?" He asked her with a knowing smile.
As Jack fished for his hat and graciously declined her offer of a spare bedroom, Phryne Fisher had to wonder if maybe she should have been asking him the same question.