Cast me gently into morning
This fic was written as part of the Phryne Ficathon over on AO3. I'm beyond flattered by the comments and kudos on the fic over there and have been asked if I could post it here too. So...here you go.
Chosen prompt: "There's a baby involved, but it's not Jack or Phryne's"
Phryne felt herself being pulled reluctantly from an exhausted, deep sleep.
A chorus of sartorially elegant – but nonetheless, annoyingly vocal cats had sequestered themselves somewhere within her boudoir for the apparent purpose of practicing their scales.
They needed to leave – right now.
Phryne, still accustomed to the feeling of waking disorientated – her return home having only occurred seven days prior, took a moment to gather her bearings.
By the muted light cast out from the night's gibbous moon, Phryne scanned the familiar, dark outlines of her bedroom, its corners fading into dark shadows. Although she was awake enough to fathom that she was, in fact, reassuringly home, she was not so fully aware of her faculties to suspend her futile search for the offending choir.
There were no practicing cats in bows ties and top hats – which, she would think later in hindsight, really ought to have been her first clue as to the phantasmagorical nature of the serenading felines.
As Phryne fought to clear her mind of the opaque fog of sleep, the incessant wailing continued. Only the slide of a warm, broad hand as it withdrew from its resting place on her abdomen served to free her from the residual reins of sleep.
Clarity came, as it usually did, with a swiftness akin to that of a slap in the face. Sitting bolt-upright, Phryne searched her bedroom once more, directing her gaze toward the basinet just beyond the foot of her bed and toward the source of the commotion. Her heart thumped heavily within her chest, as if dissatisfied with its confinement there.
Her body, after only four nights, instinctively stirred into action. Flinging the bedcovers away from her body she prepared to rise and collect the bundle only to still in her actions once more at the sound of his voice beside her. Almost instantly, Phryne felt her pulse begin to calm in its rush within her veins, his voice and his presence serving as a balm to its disquiet.
"It's alright!" Jack reassured her quietly, calmly.
"I've got him," he confirmed, his voice coarsened by the remnants of disturbed sleep.
Momentarily, she felt a dip in the mattress as Jack returned to her side gently manoeuvring himself back against the pillows; a whimpering baby Collins in the crook of his arm.
"He's beautiful, Dot."
Phryne had exalted enthusiastically; cautious to adhere to polite convention when it came to commenting on the birth of a baby.
Phryne was genuinely pleased to bend to convention for her dearest Dot. She thought her companions efforts nothing short of heroic. Phryne was pleased she had made it home on time to bear witness to the birth and to see the child delivered safely. It had been a closely run thing, Phryne's will and determination against the Ocean were pretty evenly matched forces.
As for the aesthetically pleasing nature of her new son's appearance, Dot had excused her mistress from any further complementary observations by proclaiming the child was indeed, 'a funny colour,' but that he would soon, 'Pink up nicely'. By the look on Dot's face, Phryne thought the baby could have been born with zebra stripes and still his mother would not have been swayed against her elated certainty that the little boy was indeed the most beautiful baby in the world.
Dr Mac offered her own congratulations through a wide smile as she expertly held the bare bottomed baby aloft, enabling his still recovering mother to gaze upon him as Mac went about the necessary medical checks in order to safely restore the baby to his mothers care for the albeit brief moments before contractions for the placental birth would inevitably begin. Judging by the hearty cries issuing from the child, all had been in agreement, there could be no doubt as to the child's robust health.
It had all happened so quickly. Phryne could recall every second if her traitorous mind called on her to do so, and it had – often.
"Miss –"
Dot, stared down at herself, a strange mixture of confused clarity ghosting over her face. Following her gaze, Phryne and Mac both watched with unease as a stain of vivid red crept and blossomed across the soiled white sheets. Phryne's stomach lurched with an ominous foreboding. Dot's blood brought to mind the unfurling petals of a remembrance poppy and with it, memories of the glorious dead seemed to crowd her within the room.
"Phryne call for more hands." Mac commanded calmly but forcefully, breaking the spell as she quickly placed the baby out of harm's way and began working swiftly at the unfolding tragedy before them.
"Miss!" Dot repeated, tearing her gaze from the bloodied sheets beneath her, "Help," she'd stared pleadingly at Phryne, a growing panic in her wide eyes.
Phryne felt the familiar disquiet of impotence as she uttered reassurances to her young friend.
Dot's last act before closing her eyes to the world that day was to reach out for her son; to be allowed to mother him as she had dreamed. Phryne, working with Mac to stymie the flow of blood, could only watch as her companion's beatific face paled. The outstretched arm she'd offered in supplication fell to the soiled bed empty of her son.
Dot's tight grip on Phryne's hand remained and was reciprocated, tethering her to the world of the living as the rest of her seemed to slip further away. Phryne held fast to the pale hand as she worked to staunch the blood with the other.
All the while Phryne's lips spoke a silent mantra. A bargaining, obedient invocation to her companion's seemingly corrupt god was countered by her profane indictment of his character. Give her a thug in a dark alley. Give her a jealous lover. Give her an enemy she could fight.
"Phryne go for help. Now" Mac repeated.
A daunting prescience hung in the room born from too familiar an acquaintance to death. Phryne reluctantly pulled her hand from Dot's grip and rushed for the door.
The violent echo of the door as it struck the wall behind it followed Phryne's pounding footsteps as she took off at a sprint down the corridor of the women's hospital. She didn't see the expectant, hopeful joy fall from Hugh's face, or the sturdy hand of Jack Robinson as it clasped a supportive hold to the new father's shoulder as he made for the door.
Phryne adjusted herself to sit more comfortably at the head of the bed with Jack. Twisting her upper body, she switched on her bedside lamp, draped as it was with one of her shawls – it lent the room a subdued but warm glow; they'd learned by the second evening that it had a more soporific effect on the child than the unfiltered light of the lamp alone.
She scooted herself closer to her bedfellows. Tired, Phryne rested her head against Jack's shoulder. Neither spoke for long moments as they allowed the hour to settle around them. If the clock on her nightstand was to be believed it was a little after 5 o'clock in the morning. It would mean that they had accomplished five whole hours of undisturbed sleep since they'd last put him down. A new record.
A glance outside the bedroom window confirmed the early hour, as although the moon still shone bright, it hung low in the velvety sapphire sky that preceded dawn.
There had been neither decision nor agreement between them to share a bed on that first night. They had both simply fallen into an exhausted sleep together, fully clothed and on top of the sheets. Positions shifted throughout the night as their bodies marked time like the turning hands of a clock. Their limbs still animated with their last efforts to placate the brand new little human being in the basinet at the foot of the bed.
There had been surprisingly little embarrassment when they woke together from that first hazy night, Phryne, with her chin propped up against the foot of the bed and Jack with his shoed feet still firmly planted on the ground; his torso bent backwards as if performing a strange limbo. The second night had not differed greatly from the first, except in the fact that they had both managed to remove their shoes and to manoeuvre themselves into a more conventional position within the bed by the time the clock struck midnight.
It was a routine they had fallen into without negotiation or appeal. Neither of them had had the energy or the inclination to debate the propriety of it all and as the second night fell, it seemed only natural to agree to it as a concession to necessity.
The child eventually calmed, his cries turning to soft, non committal whimpers and then to blissful silence. His unfocused eyes fixed on the two faces watching over him as Phryne ran her fingers gently over the velvety smoothness of his fine hair; stilling her fingers as she reached the child's soft fontanel. She watched for a moment as the strong thrumming of his heartbeat evidenced itself in this most vulnerable of places. Absorbed by it, Phryne cupped her hand over the child's head as it rested against Jacks bicep. She felt the pulse beat its steady rhythm within her palm and she allowed herself be reassured by it.
Dot had been right, he'd pinked up nicely.
She'd always thought that all babies looked alike but she was happy to be proven wrong on that count, and to see Dot's son carry such a likeness in his features to his mothers.
"He favours his mother doesn't he?" Phryne observed quietly, giving voice to her thoughts and finally breaking the silence of the room.
"Yes, he does." Jack agreed, speaking the words into the top of Phryne's head as it rested on his shoulder.
"Apart from the obvious anatomical differences, that is." Phryne added.
Jack couldn't help but chuckle at that. He was relieved in her attempt at levity.
"Was that a smile?" Phryne queried, as she gazed down at the strange grimacing grin of the child's mouth.
"Afraid not." Jack wrinkled his nose. "But I think he'll be happier now that he's relieved himself of his...burden. Change or feed?" Jack gave her the option knowing full well which one she would choose.
"I'll go down and get the bottle ready." Phryne answered promptly, scooting her bottom across and then off the bed.
With the young master Collins clean and presentable once more, Jack carried him down the dimly lit staircase of Wardlow in search of Phryne and his feed. Jack, having broken his usual habit of removing his wristwatch before bed, glanced at the timepiece again and noted that Phryne had been longer than her usual, surprisingly proficient self. Jack listened to the stillness of the house and noted that he could hear none of the usual din of industry he had come to expect issuing from the kitchen.
As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, Jack noted that the outside door was ajar. Phryne, he knew, had taken to opening the door in an attempt to rouse herself from the somnolent fog they had both found themselves in. A mild breeze circled throughout the kitchen, carrying with it the faintly salty sea air and the promise of the warm day to come.
The light wind caught the curling vines of steam as it rose and danced above the pan of boiling water Phryne had set on the stove. However, it didn't seem to have had the desired effect on Phryne herself. She had fallen asleep.
There she sat on a chair at the head of the kitchen table; one leg raised from the cold kitchen floor and tucked beneath her. Leaning forward, her elbow rested upon the table top, with her face braced upwards within her upturned palm.
Jack's breath caught at the sight of her. She was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. He wondered if she would take issue that he came to the conclusion looking at her now; without her usual finery, free of superfluous adornments and bare of cosmetics. Phryne in full regalia was one thing. Phryne when she wasn't even trying was another creature entirely.
He was disinclined to wake her; she'd barely had the opportunity to unpack her things upon her arrival home before all hell had broken loose. Besides, she looked peaceful, her countenance one of serene rest that he had not seen her wear these last few days. No, he thought, he would leave her to sleep. He did not fool himself into thinking his decision was a purely selfless one, it provided him with the rare latitude to observe her, an opportunity he had not been able to acquire since her return. Jack took the opportunity afforded to him now.
At first glance it struck him; if he'd had the facility for artistic talent he would have drawn up a chair and committed her likeness to paper. As it was, he rued his lack of that particular gift. He was no Sarcelle.
Her legs, bare from mid-thigh caught Jacks attention first. In her haste to remove herself from the bedroom (and changing duties) Phryne had not donned her robe. Her nightdress, a slip of silky, mauve material allowed Jack greater meditation upon the fine lines of her figure. Paying close attention to the slim bend of her knee he fought against a baser temptation to run his fingers along the expanse of pale skin he found there. He traversed unhurried eyes over her form, from the fine sculptured tone of her arms to the poised arch of her neck as she held her chin aloft in her palm.
His attention was inevitably drawn to the slow rise and fall of her chest. Swallowing hard, he tried desperately to be a gentleman and to direct his gaze elsewhere but found himself lacking the incentive to do so. Tender affection and lustful heat warred for supremacy until they coalesced and spread in his chest as a physical ache.
Young Collins, who had no such inclination to gaze any longer on a sleeping Miss Fisher began to stir and grumble once more.
Phryne woke, not with a start as Jack was concerned she would, but with a slow, lazy smile spreading across her face. With sleepy, hooded eyes she levelled Jack with a look and made an infinitesimal, side to side shake of her head: an internal chastisement given outward validation. He wasn't entirely sure if she meant it for herself or if she was somehow wise to the fact that he had been staring at her. He got his answer.
"Sorry," she said groggily "I'm not very good at this am I?" she lifted her hand to reference the unfinished tasks around her.
"You're already better than you think!" He spoke truthfully.
"I'm currently burning water," she pointed to the stove. "Is that even supposed to be possible?" she said as she made to rise from her chair.
"No, stay there," He pressed his hand to her shoulder, stalling her movements, "Here!" He bent over her, relinquishing the child into her care; a transition made seamless through practice.
With baby tucked securely in the crook of her arm, Phryne was afforded the opportunity to watch unobserved as Jack hovered above her as he went about straightening the child's attire. Phryne bit down on a smile as Jack's brow knit in concentration as he set the little outfit back to rights. She watched as the tendons in his hands shifted and moved under his sun touched skin as he attempted to refasten a loosened button from the child's cardigan, his long fingers working deftly to place the tiny pearlescent button back into its fastening.
His task complete, Phryne reached out and seized his hand before he could move away to his next duty.
"Jack!"
She struggled to find the words to express her gratitude beyond the woefully inadequate, 'Thank you'. Instead, she gazed at their joined hands as if she were looking for the answers there. She gave a small shrug when the words still would not come.
"You're welcome!" He spoke quietly, acquitting her of any further avowal.
Reaching out with his free hand, he combed a lock of her hair behind her ear. Of their own accord, his fingertips chartered a long reminisced trail down the column of her neck, before they rested for an all too brief moment on the notch of her clavicle. He doesn't imagine the quickening of the pulse he finds there.
He'd offered to help her, of course he had, he couldn't not help her.
He could recall seeing men holding unpinned grenades with less panic on their faces than he had seen in Phryne as Mac made her suggestion that Phryne should take the child home In loco parentis. Hugh's refusal to leave his wife's side at the hospital left very little alternative. She consented straight away of course, as Jack had no doubt she would. Though she was petrified, love knew no austerity when it came to Phryne Fisher.
Reluctantly he pulled his hands from hers and smiled, "He's set to pitch a fit if we don't get his bottle," stepping back a pace, he held her gaze before finally turning in the direction of the stove, retrieving one of the prepared bottles from the refrigeration unit on his way.
Phryne used her foot to toe one of the adjacent kitchen chairs closer to her, crossing her legs at the ankles she stretched them to rest upon its seat.
From her perch Phryne cast appreciative eyes over the back of Jack's form as he decanted what was left of the hot water from the saucepan into a shallow jug, placing the bottle of milk to warm within it. The bottle bobbed close to the surface of the water and chimed musically as it gently tapped against the confines of the jug.
There was no bravado to him, Phryne reflected with an appraising eye; just quiet, unassuming, solid strength. He was certainly a physically beautiful man, though she doubted that he would agree with her surmise, especially as he was now, in plain cotton pyjama bottoms and the vest he'd been too tired to remove last night. He moved with an easy confidence, his lithe body going about tasks that stood in complete opposition to what society would have a man do. Phryne thought he looked all the more masculine for it somehow.
Funny, she thought, suddenly struck by the irony that it was the man she had not slept with that she had come to hold so precious to her. She could take a different man into her bed every other evening if she was so inclined but she knew if she did she would forever call to mind and reflect on the man currently standing in her kitchen.
He should have run a mile but he hadn't, he was here, with her, fixing a bottle for a child that was not his own. For a man who had held the world at such a great distance when she'd first met him, he was, by the very ubiquity of his presence now, a wonderful enigma of contradictions.
The summation of his character and transparency of his conduct brokered no counter from her when he had first driven her home, baby Collins asleep in her arms. She had accepted the help that he offered; a thoroughly unnatural condition for Phryne.
"Not long now mate!" Jack threw over his shoulder in answer to the beginnings of fractious grumbles issuing from the child.
Phryne started slightly as his voice broke through her torpor.
Jacks words, seemingly served to prompt a conditional stimulus in the child; an innate reflex that saw him seeking out, and nuzzling toward Phryne's breast. Her breath caught for a moment, she didn't think it would ever cease to. She offered her knuckle to the child in order to allay any further tears. It was a placatory gesture that usually served them well for a few minutes, until the child grew wise to the ruse and to the apparent lack of sustenance offered by the soft phalanx of Phryne's finger.
"Sorry young sir. That bar is closed!" Phryne offered by way of an apology. Unperturbed, Baby Collins accepted the pacification offered. Phryne looked down in wonder at the little curiosity she held in her arms, his warm yet surprisingly strong mouth drawing on her finger.
Blessedly, the bottle was prepared before the ruse was up. Jack, having checked the milk (twice for good measure) on his wrist.
Taking on the character of sommelier, and with a folded muslin cloth over his forearm, Jack presented the bottle with a flourish.
"A good year I think you'll find!" Jack announced.
With an amused smile and a shake of her head Phryne took the offered bottle. He looked so pleased with his jest; she wanted to kiss the smile from his face.
She gave him a look that he understood to mean, 'silly sod,' He could live with that opinion if it meant she smiled at him like that more often.
With her finger safely exchanged for the bottle, Phryne rose from the kitchen chair. The inertia of feeding, and the baby's contented little sounds as he fed, only served to make her feel drowsier and so she paced.
"I think we must have walked miles over the last few days doing that!" Jack remarked as he went about cleaning away the feeding paraphernalia. "Tea or coffee?"
"Definitely coffee," she answered, "Please." she added as an afterthought, conscious that he not get the impression she thought of him as an acolyte.
The limited space within the kitchen restricted her movements but she found she didn't want to leave it and Jack's presence and so she adjusted her movements. Outside, the newly breaking dawn dappled a pattern of light on the kitchen floor and her feet found a slow, swaying waltz along the warming tiles.
"I'd ask to cut in but I think he'd probably show me up." Jack joked.
Unable to concentrate on the task of making breakfast, he gave in to temptation and instead leaned back against the kitchen counter and watched the surfeit of riches before him.
"It's looking like it might turn out to be a beautiful day!" He added, glancing at the lightening azure sky beyond the window.
"Hmm" she answered simply and took the two paces needed to reach him, fixed him with a look that he couldn't quite read before pressing her mouth to his own. It might have been considered a chaste kiss were it not for her tongue stroking along the underside of his top lip as she drew it between her lips before pulling away. "I think it might be!" she finished before dancing away from him again. He would not be able deny the blush to his cheeks this time she thought.
With the contents of the bottle nearly empty, Phryne tipped its angle higher, "Take this to mummy" she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the child's forehead. It was a practice Phryne had taken to each morning. A sympathetic compass in the form of a child.
Dot awoke to the familiar sensation of lips pressed upon her forehead. Opening unfocused, searching eyes to a world awash in early morning sunlight, she lifted a leaden arm and touched her fingertips to her forehead in search of the trademark circle of red lipstick.