Rating: M – for preemptive debauchery and all around (good) bad behavior.
Pairing: The best
Disclaimer: Jack is a Robinson, Phryne's a Fisher, alas, I own neither, as much as I wish-a. (I'm from N.J., people actually talk like that here.)
A/N: Again, I haven't finished Season 2, so I'm working from early on. In any case, thanks for reading!
O Inspector! My Inspector!
II.
Phryne woke the next morning with a dull throbbing in her temple and a clear-headed sense of determination. She had spent the night doing a fair bit of damage to her wine collection and going over and over the new details regarding her relationship with the handsome, if somewhat elusive, Inspector.
By one of the clock she had decided that, in no uncertain terms, she would not act upon the information gleamed from a vulnerable, sleeping man.
By two of the clock she had admitted to herself that she was a rather more than a bit curious as to what the rest of his dream had been about.
By three of the clock Phryne was refusing to admit to herself that was she really not in the least bit hot and bothered or distracted or aroused by anything the Inspector had whispered – thank you very much.
By four of the clock she admitted it.
By five of the clock she had finished two bottles of French Rose, and was wondering what would be so wrong in giving herself a leg up on flirting with Jack.
By six of the clock dawn was creeping through her windows, and Phryne was giving herself permission to take certain liberties regarding certain nocturnal affairs that a certain attractive detective had quite boldly expressed, whether he had been conscious at the time or no.
So she climbed into bed, preemptively cursing her coming headache, and opened her mind to any wandering dreams her own mischievous subconscious might have been able to conjure up.
But, as she woke three hours later to learn, the wine had put her into a rather deep sleep, and if she had dreams of an illicit nature, she had no recollection of them. She was going to have to content herself with the endeavor to act out the real thing.
She had decided on that late the previous night as well. Knowing her success rate with anything she put her mind to, and knowing that she was going to pull out the heavy artillery, Phryne had to concede to the possibility that her relationship with the Inspector might change forever. She also had to concede that she was already quite well on her way to that inevitability as it was. And then she had to concede that she was rather okay with the thought of the whole thing, though that had taken to the bottom of bottle number two to come out into the open.
This whole thought process had been thoroughly addled by her favorite vintage, but when Dottie opened the curtains far too early the next morning, Phryne realized that her thoughts on the matter really hadn't changed.
"The Inspector is waiting downstairs, Miss Phryne," her dear friend said, clearly taking pains not to comment on the fact that last night's wine had definitely won the fight.
"Tell him I'll be right down," Phryne replied, then promptly shoved her head under the pillow.
She did make her way to meet her guest eventually, willing herself not to tell him everything he'd whispered the previous night.
He was sitting in the foyer, on the same blasted love seat, sipping a cup of tea and looking rather put off at how long he had been waiting for her. He wore no jacket, but still looked every bit the role of Inspector.
And that's when Phryne came to the first plan of attack on the man who would have no idea what hit him.
"Miss Fisher,' he said, standing, "I'm glad to see that you've joined the land of the living." She gave him an airy smile.
"You tease, Jack, surely," she replied. "As I recall, you fell asleep on me last night. It's only fair to return the favor." He seemed unable to find an adequate response to this, and simply steered her out the front door.
"You didn't tell me our missing person was Maxwell Claret," Phryne said sometime later, as they stood in said missing person's flat, searching for clues.
"I didn't realize it was that important," Jack replied, bending down to inspect a writing desk in the corner of the room.
"Well, of course it is!" Phryne said quickly, "to me, but also to the case!" Jack looked up, and for a fleeting second Phryne caught herself staring into his eyes. She focused.
"She's only one of the greatest underground writers of our time," Phryne said, waiting for the reaction she knew would come.
"She?" Jack sputtered. For all the time he spent with her, Phryne thought, Jack could be so endearingly naïve.
"Pseudonym," she replied. "It's not early for a woman to be a writer, you know."
"Nor a detective," Jack replied, saddling up beside her to scan the bookshelves. He was so close to her own body that Phryne felt heat surge though her at the very impropriety of it – something she had never concerned herself with before. But this was Jack, and, for better or for worse, this was different.
"Right you are, Inspector, she said, leaning slightly against the bookshelf and putting the faintest lilt into her final word, as she edged her tongue out of her mouth, so slightly he could have missed it.
But he didn't miss it. For all his stoicism Jack's face bore no hidden secrets of his feelings. He swallowed hard, and she found she quite enjoyed the unsteady wobble of his Adam's apple, the smallest patch of skin, just begging to be tasted. His face remained flush free, which made Phryne feel as thought she'd have to try harder in the future, but his eyes had gone rather wide, not unlike a startled deer.
He coughed. "What did you say, Miss Fisher?" he asked. Phryne tossed her hand into the air, waving her fingers.
"I simply remarked upon the accuracy of your social commentary regarding my chosen profession and my rather un-chosen sex." She hadn't thought his eyes could go any wider, but apparently they could, because they did.
"Yes, well," Jack tripped over his words, and eventually settled upon the ridiculous action of glancing her body over head to toe.
"I can assure you, Inspector," Phryne began, keeping the lilt subtle, but undeniable, "I'm all woman."
He glanced back up to her face, and in a voice that was more growl than whispered, replied, "as if I could ever forget that."
