A/N: This is not at all my usual cup of tea...as much as I love dear Phryne and Jack, I've never been brave enough to attempt to tackle their distinct voices. But after the (huge) consumption of lots of wonderful Phryne and Jack fic, I was tempted to try. So, I do hope this is not too silly or oddly characterized; it's just my little foray into their lovely world. Oh, and the title is borrowed from my (and Jack's) pal Shakespeare, from Anthony and Cleopatra.
Detective Inspector Jack Robinson sat at the foot of the bed methodically brushing the black shoe in his hand. The room was quiet, save for the swish—swish—swish of bristles against leather, and each time his eyes wandered up he noted with only mild concern that the room could be best described as a place of monkish simplicity.
It was only a bedroom, his bedroom, yes, but the desire for opulence in this room had never struck him. When he moved in after separating from Rosie, it seemed easiest to keep the modest décor that came with the rental, and he had settled into quiet complacency almost immediately. The frayed blue coverlet had been knit for him years before, a Christmas present from his mother, which he supposed was a greater reason for its continual existence than the modicum of comfort it provided. It was rather rough and the edge was worn on the side where he slept. The sheets, too, often ended up over starched and scratchy; his landlady, kind old woman that she was, could never seem to get the trick of the thing. Though he also supposed he should not complain, for she saved him the task of laundering. The walls were done up in a nondescript cream color that matched the rug and curtains, both a shade of brown that could be best described as akin to boiled peanuts. He'd chosen none of it, but had occupied space for years now without issue. It held few memories, though it contained nearly all his belongings, and the only thing that made the room distinct to him was the copy of Shakespeare, oxblood leather with a well-worn cover, that lay discarded on the bedside table. He read from it nearly every night, the dog-eared pages offering up clues to his favorite passages.
But now—swish, swish—he looked down at the shoe again, worrying a particularly troublesome spot that refused to shine quite like the rest of the thing—now he faced the possibility of examination, interrogation, the great cracking open of his sad little abode, in just about twenty short minutes.
He knew that she would be on time. She always was, annoyingly so. For a woman who appeared to love nothing more than a late morning and staying around until the last call, when it came to his cases, she always popped in just on time, smiles and fluttering skirts and whip-smart, driving him to distraction and consternation in equal measure.
They'd agreed on the time nearly a week before. He'd brought wine from Strano's, and she'd allowed him into her parlor again, patting the settee and uncorking the bottle with well-practiced ease. They had toasted to something, though he could no longer remember what, and it had seemed different. The air, he thought, was changing. Well into the night, and well into a second bottle of wine (French and likely worth a dizzying sum), he'd fingered the fox fur throw, never before realizing how comfortable the room was, despite its luxurious sway. And of course all she had needed was one clue, this one little gesture, before she pounced. Question after question, the wine loosening his tongue faster than he would have liked, and before he quite knew what had happened, he had agreed to let her come assess and redecorate his home with the stipulation that he be allowed to choose before she purchased anything ornate or ridiculous. He knew, though, that she would not. She knew him perhaps better than anyone did, better than anyone ever had, and it unnerved him.
He stood now, dropping the shiny leather shoe to the floor, and slipped his foot in, the backs of his legs pressing against the mattress as he looked once more around the space. His cheeks burned a warm pink and stomach tingled with anticipation, realizing she would soon see these rooms and see—see him. Would she be disappointed? Phryne Fisher was nothing if not adaptable. He had seen her traverse class lines faster than the walls she scaled and she was never ostentatious about the privilege with which she lived. But to have her here, to allow her into this place, seemed a dangerous breach.
"We'll have to make do with each other," he'd told her that night, and he'd meant it. He had. Looking at her that night, the black lace of her blouse highlighting her reddened pout and porcelain skin, he knew with absolute certainty—more than he had ever felt it before, that he would do anything to be given a chance, would do anything if allowed only a few moments beside her burnished throne. And when he saw her mouth quirk into a smile, saw the lightness in her eyes, he thought that perhaps he—perhaps they—had been given a chance.
The ticking clock made him aware once more of the time, and he slipped his shoes on, surreptitiously tightening his tie and running a hand through his hair once more before he exited the room, closing the door with nervous haste that only ever cropped up when Phryne was about. He looked round the small parlor once more, taking in the coldness of the place, already wondering what it might be molded to under her influence.
The bell rang and was followed by a strong rap against his oak door. He could see her red hat refracted in the brushed glass, and took a final glance at the quiet order of the place, frowning at its muted air.
Perhaps, once again,she had come at just the right time.