emry69, one of the beautiful things about fanfiction is that different people have different interpretations of the characters. For me, Jack's canon acceptance of abortion and general disinterest in children was enough to convince me that he is not someone who is pining for lost children. I then included small hints of a backstory of Jack and Rosie's marriage to reinforce why bodily autonomy is important to him and why his regrets about not having a child is something that has been weighed up and become an old grief.

The next morning, Jack woke very early. Phryne was, as usual, sprawled across him and snoring; he lay in bed for some time, just enjoying the sensation. Eventually he shifted slightly, aware that they had a court appearance at ten, and she grumbled.

"No," she muttered. "Bad husband."

"Pardon?" he asked.

She opened one eye, looking at him. "Bad husband. Good bed."

He smiled broadly. "Say it again."

"Whaaat?" she asked, brow furrowing. He suspected that she'd hate that the word brought to mind was 'adorable', so he kept the thought to himself. "You want me to call you a bad husband again?"

"Yes."

"You are a strange, strange man. Go to sleep."

"I could make it worth the effort," Jack suggested, brushing the hair off her neck and replacing it with his lips.

She gave an inquisitive hum, eyes still resolutely closed.

"I could kiss you here?" he asked, nose brushing against the skin of her upper arm. "Or here, perhaps?"

"Lower," she said. "Start at the wrist and I'll consider it."

He raised her arm to his mouth, scraping his teeth gently across her pulse point. She arched towards him, ever so slightly, and he laughed.

"You're magnificent," he told her, slowly making his way up her arm, minding every soft exhalation and shift of her body. He paused when he reached her shoulder once more, waiting for her word.

"Don't you bloody dare stop now, Jack Robinson," she threatened.

"Pardon?"

"Don't. Stop."

"Try again, Mrs. Fisher-Robinson."

She groaned.

"You are a sentimental idiot," she muttered, lips quirking into a smile. "You're lucky I'm far too sleepy to protest, husband."

He traced a finger across her clavicle, down her breastbone, across the taut expanse of her stomach; she whimpered, legs falling open in a silent plea.

"A sentimental idiot, am I?" he teased, bending over to press kisses against her jaw.

"The most," she replied; she had still not opened her eyes, though he suspected it was mostly pretense at this point.

His finger slid down, finding her soft and warm and wet. One stroke. Two. A pause.

"You started it, sleepy," he whispered into her ear.

"I am not responsible for anything I say before my first hot beverage in the morning," she protested, moving her hips to push against his still hand. "God, Jack! Move!"

He did, coaxing a shuddering climax from her within moments; when it passed her eyes opened, and she smirked.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning, love," he said. "It's time to get up."

They showered together—taking longer than necessary to simply get clean—and then dressed in a companionable silence before heading downstairs. Mr. Butler had both coffee and tea prepared; Phryne poured them each a drink, then sat at the table with the day's newspaper.

"Oh, there was a m—"

"I don't want to hear it," Jack cut in with a laugh. "No doubt you'll find some intriguing situation and then we'll both wish I was working."

She pouted.

"Very well then, Jack. What am I to do with myself today?"

"Well, I thought we'd go for a walk. Maybe down to the courthouse. See if there are any interesting cases on the docket."

Phryne laughed. "I suppose we could."

"Did Jane say if she'd be able to make it?" asked Jack; he knew Phryne had spoken with her almost every day since she'd moved into the flat and begun university.

"She has classes until eleven, but she'll meet us so we can go for lunch. Says Ivy might be able to make it too," Phryne replied, then looked behind Jack. "Morning, Squirrel."

Turning in his seat, Jack saw Ant by the door. The boy smiled, hesitating for a moment before running over and scrambling onto the chair beside Phryne. The three of them ate breakfast, then Phryne gave the boy a conspiratorial look.

"Shall we go get dressed while Dack finishes his newspaper?" she asked, and Ant nodded enthusiastically.

Jack watched them go, wondering what the hell Phryne had up her sleeve this time.

—

"Will you stop squirming?" Phryne asked, trying to button Anthony's shirt. "Honestly, I am very glad that I'm not the one dressing you every morning."

"Dack! Dack hat!"

Phryne shook her head. "Dack hat once you have the rest on. You'll look just like him when we're done."

She had realised that she hadn't a clue what boys Anthony's age actually wore—the first day she had gone out and bought a near-replica of the outfit he'd had on when she had met him at the crime scene, a few other pieces had come into the house through Dot, and Mairi had bought him some sort of short suit for the wedding—so when Phryne had replenished his wardrobe she'd ended up asking a shop worker.

The woman had shown her a selection; short trousers with shirts and vests, mostly, and some jumpers. Flat caps for millinery, though it would take a miracle to convince Anthony to relinquish his beloved fedora. Very little had changed from Phryne's own childhood in many regards, not that any boys from Collingwood had been well-dressed.

"And of course," the woman said, "for formal occasions, more and more boys seem to be emulating their father in suits with long trousers."

And that was how Phryne found herself attempting to wrangle a wolverine into a charcoal grey waistcoat. She hoped Jack would appreciate the effort. Which he very likely would not, because he was a man and had even less knowledge of children's fashion than she did, but the sentiment was there. He was so cautious about this whole matter when he thought she was not looking, as if waiting for matters to go awry, but when his real feelings broke through… oh, it was glorious. She had every intention of seeing it often, and if sartorial statements helped in that matter… well, clothes proclaimed the man.

When she finally succeeded in her task—in hindsight she should have asked Mr. Butler for assistance—she popped Squirrel's fedora on his head.

"There you are. Dack hat."

"Dayoo," Anthony grinned at her, eyes squinting.

"You're welcome, Squirrel. It's a very big day today, you know."

He could not even begin to grasp the implications, but saying it aloud made Phryne realise that it was the point of no return. She could—she would—be recorded as the boy's mother by the end of the day. She picked him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and leaving her lip print behind.

"You might need a handkerchief for that," she laughed as he rubbed at the waxy mark. "Perhaps Dack has a small one he can lend you. Shall we go see?"

Ant nodded, and Phryne carried him back to the dining room just as Jack finished the paper. He looked up, and smiled broadly.

"You look very sharp, Ant," he said, folding the paper and setting it aside.

"Dack me!"

The smile fell, his eyes closed, and Jack swallowed hard before looking at Anthony a second time.

"I see Mims has gotten to you," he said, his smile small and soft now. "Come here and we'll get that cleaned up."

Phryne released the boy, who dutifully made his way over to Jack and allowed his face to be wiped. As he cleaned, Jack said something to Squirrel that made the boy giggle and Jack chuckled in response; Phryne smirked at them both.

"Mr. Fisher-Robinson, I highly recommend you get ready to go if you don't wish to be late," she said firmly, and he looked up at her confusion. She winked, and his answering grin was lopsided and sweet.

He stood, ordered Ant to go find his shoes, and came to stand beside her.

"You don't need to keep doing that, Phryne."

She shook her head, watching him from the corner of her eye to see how he reacted.

"I know. And I wouldn't get used to it, if I were you, but…"

"But?"

"Whether you're my husband or not doesn't make a lick of difference to who we are," she said. "It never has. But, maybe, just for today… I like to say it."

It was bordering on nauseatingly sentimental, but the smile on his face made it worth the concession. She playfully nudged his arm with her shoulder, then went to retrieve her hat.

When she came back downstairs he and Anthony were ready to go.

"Very dapper, the both of you," she said. "Off we go or we'll be late."

Jack gave her a sly grin as he opened the door. "You mean you can arrive on time?"

"I make it a point not to, under most circumstances," she laughed, stepping out into the summer sunlight. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her handbag, donning them before turning back to Jack. "It rather detracts from my entrances."

He smirked and nodded his head in acknowledgment before following her out the door, Anthony holding his hand. The ride to the courthouse was quick, and they met with Phryne's solicitor to go over the details once more before they were due before the judge. The room was quiet as the man considered the information before him; there is very little for them to do but sit and wait, answering questions when they were posed but otherwise silent. Anthony's court-appointed guardian ad litem sat nearby; the boy had refused to leave Phryne and Jack's side, clutching both of them with tight fists; Phryne wasn't certain whether it would help or hinder their case, but she had no intention of sending him to sit with a stranger without good reason.

The judge eventually looked up and fixed them with a watery stare.

"And you swear that everything presented in these documents is the truth?" he wheezed.

Phryne smiled, ignoring the tightness in her chest, and assured him it was.

"Well," the man said, hands spreading out to gesture towards the documents before him, "I believe you have amply proven your suitability. Your standing in the community, your financials, your medical and home reports, your letters of recommendation. Application granted."

It took Phryne a moment to process his words, and when she did she held her breath and waited for the last-minute denouement of a secret relative or the sham of their marital situation or… anything. It didn't come, not as the judge signed the application; not as he explained that the adoption would go on a register kept by the government statist and an amended birth record with their details listed under parents would be left with the Office of Births, Deaths, and Marriages; not as they gathered their hats and left the room. Once outside she was met by Jane and Ivy both, her daughter hugging her tightly in greeting.

"Miss Phryne?" she said, the question evident in her eyes.

Phryne had been concerned how Jane would take the news when it had been announced, but the girl—young woman, Phryne corrected herself—had grinned cheekily, her rough edges never quite worn away, and said that it sounded marvelous that they would have someone to pester them now that she was gone. Phryne had pointed out that this was the third meal Jane had eaten at Wardlow that week, and it hardly counted as gone if Phryne still had to feed her.

"Oh, application granted," Phryne said, the words still not quite penetrating the fog in her mind.

Jane squealed in excitement and hugged Phryne again, then moved on to hug Jack—who looked utterly baffled by the development, but happy—and Anthony himself, held in Jack's arms. Then Ivy, who had hung back until this point, pulled a camera from her bag and declared that a family photo must be taken.

"Excellent idea!" Phryne exclaimed, looping her arm through Jack's and smiling broadly.

Jane went to move away, but Phryne caught her elbow.

"Family picture," she said pointedly.

"Oh, Miss Phryne—"

"Jane," Jack interjected. It was the first time he'd spoken since the adoption was granted, and his voice sounded tight with emotion. "I would never presume that you would… feel obliged to be in this photo, but I would like it immensely if you were."

Jane blushed furiously, and Phryne was fairly certain she saw tears in her daughter's eyes.

"Well, Jack, if you insist," said Jane with much bravado. "But I yield under great persuasion."

Jack laughed and Phryne groaned. Two of them. She'd have to sway Squirrel to her side before Jack stuck a copy of Shakespeare for Children in his hands.

—

After a long and very enthusiastic lunch, Phryne and Jack headed back to Wardlow with Anthony. Phryne excused herself, citing a need to change and complete some correspondence. Jack gave her a doubtful look, and she sighed.

"I need to write to Mother and Father," she explained. "I have no doubt Aunt Prudence has already informed them of the scheme, probably complete with wailing about the family bloodline despite her happiness, but I had no interest in mentioning it to them until it was complete. I can just imagine my mother's gloating—'Phryne, dear, it's about time you settled down. I'm glad your inspector made you see sense.'—and Father… he'd probably attempt to find some way to exploit it to his own advantage. They don't get to ruin this."

"I'd like to see them try against you," Jack said, giving her elbow a squeeze. "Don't take too long?"

She removed her hat, fluffing her hair quickly.

"I'll get changed and write it in the parlour, if you want to entertain Squirrel in there," she offered. "It might help."

"If you need to be alone—"

"I'll bring it through," she said, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. "But I do appreciate the offer."

She rejoined them a few minutes later, paper and pen in hand. She curled onto the chaise, and Jack could feel her glancing up on occasion to watch him and Anthony reading quietly. Eventually she finished, huffing as she addressed and sealed the envelope.

"Well, that's that. I expect that Mother will break her telephone aversion to harangue me for details once this latter arrives, but I can always claim a poor connection of the line," she smiled; she was not happy about the prospect, Jack knew, but she was also not uncertain in the least.

She motioned him to come towards her, so Jack slid Ant from his lap and walked over. She caught his hand and stood, moving into his embrace.

"Now, Jack, darling… I think perhaps you have a letter to write yourself," she said, smiling up at him as she stroked his lapel. She clearly read his confusion, because she added, "Rosie needs to hear this from you."

Jack felt like an utter cad for not thinking of it. His friendship with Rosie was limited to letters every few months, usually to update her on her father's health—she'd refused to contact her father after his sentencing, but did still worry—and other events, but it was still a friendship. She had remarried and moved to Sydney with her new husband and two stepdaughters, and appeared to be very happy; he was still unsure how she would take such news.

"Don't you dare start blaming yourself for not thinking of it, Jack," Phryne—his wife—scolded. "It's all been such a whirlwind, and none of us could have imagined that we'd be here. And I know that it is likely to be difficult for you. So I will sit beside you, or across the room, or put Anthony down for a nap and leave you alone, whatever you need to make this easier for you, alright? Just say the word."

Phryne was so often a flame, quick and bright and liable to burn you just as quickly as warm you, and he loved her for it. But on occasion… on occasion, she would be the steady ember when his soul needed it.

"I think I'll go to the library," he said quietly, and she stroked his lapel once more before moving away. No chastisement, no recriminations, just unwavering support; he was exceptionally lucky to have her by his side.

He ruffled Ant's hair as he walked by the armchair, the boy looking at the book they had been reading together, then left the room and headed towards the library with the small writing desk he often used. He sat in the chair, pulling out stationery and his favourite fountain pen, as if that would make the process simpler, and began to write.

Dear Rosie, Several months ago there was an investigation where

No. Another piece of paper. Where to start?

Dear Rosie, As the rumour mills of both Melbourne and Sydney have no doubt told you

Not that either. After all their years together she deserved to hear this news from him, and he had failed to do even think of it. Right. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think.

Dear Rosie, As of today the courts of Victoria

He crumpled that one up and threw it into the empty fire grate. The courts had nothing to do with it, not really. He loosened his tie, removed his jacket. It was so simple. It should be so simple. But it was not.

It was stumbling, tipsy and giddy, across the threshold of their tiny bungalow the night of their wedding, Rosie throwing her arms wide and laughing about how they would fill it. It was dashed hopes—he'd lost count, in the end, of how many times they had thought maybe and how many times they were certain—and five years apart when they grew into people the other didn't recognise. It was clinging to those halcyon days through mud and exhaustion, then coming home to find the laughter gone, the memories—war and happiness both—echoing so loudly in the walls that he could not sleep. It was the quiet desperation as they tried, again and again even as they argued, convinced that it would be the answer they needed; it was the moment they had both said enough, Rosie sobbing in the bed—newly returned from the hospital—as Jack left for work. (It wasn't even his shift; he'd been there three hours before he even noticed, coming to awareness quite suddenly.) It was their vain attempts to pretend that it didn't matter, that they were content with just the two of them—and it might have been true, if they had been the same Jack and Rosie who'd married over a decade before. It was her moving in with her sister, both of them pretending it was for Joan's sake. It was standing in a courtroom with his failures laid before him and still unable to devote his full attention even this one final time, Phryne's quiet "I need you to remind me not to be afraid of shadows" thudding through his veins.

It was fan dances and flirtations and motorcar wrecks and weeks apart that left a gaping wound he'd been so certain he would never feel again, and somehow finding his way to the other side stronger but only because they were in it together and not entirely sure the strength was his own. It was the realisation that he cared for Rosie, would always be there because twenty years of friendship could not be forgotten by a declaration from the court, but that he turned to Phryne when he needed a soft place to lay his head—the irony that this came in the form of a modern woman determined to never commit to a man did not elude him then or now. It was "Come after me" in an airfield, a challenge and a promise and a need to fly—hers or his, he was never quite sure—and the knowledge that the only certainty at the other end was uncertainty. It was London, that look on Phryne's face as he disembarked the ship, radiant as the sun that did not shine in the English sky, that look that told him that she loved him, that she would love him, that she would not clip her wings even for him and the knowledge that he would build his own wings of feathers and wax and risk Icarus's fate before he ever asked her to.

It was happiness, true blinding happiness that he had almost forgotten the feel of. It was coming home together, facing the world together, tackling criminals and lazy Sunday mornings with equal vigour. It was family found and family lost and forging a new brilliant life, thumbing their nose at anyone or anything that tried to tear them apart; he had allowed that once, and he was damned if he'd allow it again. It was a crime scene only a few months earlier, the stench of blood and a hysterical child, hearing the boy's name and thinking—he would admit it now—that if they had continued the pregnancy he had always been fond of the name, and at the same time so grateful that they had not. It was tearing down the lies of Anthony's aunt, almost missed, and finding the boy in his house, his refuge, that evening and being too tired to really think. It was all those months since, for better or worse, and Phryne's voice pushing him into the unknown once more with "He has us" as if it was a fundamental truth. It was wanting, wanting so badly to believe and being unable to do so even as the pieces fell into place so easily; her hand in the crook of his arm as the approached the registrar, interviews and meetings and applications. It was sitting in a courtroom before a judge and being told yes, finally yes.

Dear Rosie, he penned carefully; he would write the truth and then revise it, remove the rawness and the grief and the joy until it was nothing more than a missive between friends.

Dear Rosie, Phryne and I have a son.

He stared at the words, uncomprehending. I have a son. And he crumbled.