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When Phryne woke the early morning light was streaming through opened curtains, and she wondered if Mr. Butler had taken leave of his senses. Her head hurt far too much to deal with the sun.
"Jack?" she said, and waved her hand in the general direction of the window. "Could you…?"
From somewhere to her right he growled, but stumbled out of bed to comply. Then he checked that the alarm had not gone off and burrowed back under the blankets, making discontented noises the whole time. Phryne reached out and traced the line of his spine, pressing kisses against his shoulder blade.
"Sleep," he said gruffly.
She settled against him. They would need to talk, she knew that, but for the moment it was enough to feel him warm and solid beneath her hands. Unable to fall back asleep, she tried to remember the previous night's conversation; in the literal and metaphorical light of morning it was all much clearer.
Jane's confession had blindsided her, and that had left her uncharacteristically contemplative. And Jack had been gone all evening, leaving her to put Anthony to bed and underscoring how very little she had done since she'd decided to bring him home. Of course Jack had stepped in; she hadn't given him much of a choice. And instead of thanking him she had lashed out in fear. Fear that she had failed, that he would realise what he did not have, that she would somehow not be enough for him. That had rankled: she was Phryne Fisher (Fisher-Robinson, amended a small voice, and she conceded that regardless of legal paperwork she had donned that moniker willingly), and she did not worry about being enough for anyone.
And as for Jack, unflappable Jack… well, he was always the sort to retreat and regroup and she hated that. He buried his valid complaints unless she prodded at them. If he didn't like that, he shouldn't have taken up with a detective. She chuckled a little at that thought, and he rolled over. His eyes looked almost grey in the dim lighting; they were so rarely the same colour twice.
"Are you not sleeping?" he asked, and she shook her head.
"I think we need to talk about last night."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. Sorry and a sixpence will buy you a week of newspapers."
"It wouldn't, actually," he said. "The Argus—"
"It was a turn of phrase," she laughed, and his lips twitched in amusement. "I was…unfair. I was upset and it was easier to take it out on you."
"It had to come out sometime," he said. "But neither of us was at our best last night."
"And this morning?" she smirked, leaning over him to take an exaggerated glance at the alarm clock. "We have a whole hour before you have to get up."
When he didn't immediately object she rolled him onto his back, straddling him with a gleeful smile.
"Have it out, then reconcile?" she suggested, moving her hips in a slow circle.
He closed his eyes and groaned.
"I believe you have an unfair advantage right now," he muttered.
"I'm sure you could think of some way to level the playing field," she taunted, laughing as his hands found her hips to lift her up and roll her beneath him.
"Like that?" he asked, looking far too proud of his achievement.
She hooked her leg around the back of his thighs and thrust herself upwards in response.
"This isn't having it out, Miss Fisher," he growled.
"No, but it is more fun."
"Phryne…"
She pulled his head down for a kiss, then released him with a careful caress of his cheek.
"I am sorry about last night. I was tired and frustrated and you are just so aggravatingly competent at this. I'm not used to being bested."
"Ahh," he nodded, a smug smirk on his face making him utterly irresistible. She could no longer remember why she had doubted him. Them. "So this can all be traced back to your competitive streak?"
"That and your refusal to admit when you want something. It's not hard, Jack. You spend so much time trying to do the right thing, to make everyone else happy. You are allowed to be selfish from time to time, even if nothing comes of it."
"I am selfish," he countered, his smirk becoming wry. "The problem is that our desires so often overlap that you think I'm not. You do tend to think me nobler than I actually am."
"That does sound promising," Phryne purred. "What sorts of things are you desiring right now? Perhaps my hand…right…there?"
He swallowed hard, which she took as permission to continue her explorations.
"Or here, perhaps?"
His eyes closed at the gentle sensation.
"Or maybe not my hand at all?" she suggested, undulating her hips against him, and he broke.
"Oh god, yes," came his low growl as he pressed against her.
She laughed again, moving up to meet him, guiding him inside.
"You should be selfish more often," Phryne grinned, scraping her nails down his back and appreciating the groan that rumbled through them both as she did so. "It's positively delicious."
—
Once Jack had left for work on Tuesday, Phryne had dressed and encouraged Jane to take the day off school—"It's all revision, darling, and you've revised endlessly for the past month"—to go shopping. They'd had a marvelous time, and she had almost forgotten that she'd found nothing but yet another dead end in the investigation into Helen Fox's family. There was no such freedom on Wednesday, but as she found herself waiting for returned telephone calls after lunch she decided that a chance to curl up with a good book while she did so was most welcome.
She had just reached a particularly engrossing part when Phryne felt the cushion beside her shift; she almost kicked out to dislodge whatever was there—the neighbour's cat had a hideous habit of wandering into Wardlow every few months, and she hated the beast—but looked up from her book first; she was surprised to find Anthony beside her, mouth pressed into a tight line and his arms full of stuffed dog and the largest book in the nursery.
"Have you escaped from Mrs. Bowen?" she asked archly.
The boy gave her an utterly unamused look that would rival Jack's, shifted back further into the seat by squirming, then laid the book on his lap and opened the cover. He couldn't quite manage to turn individual pages, but he handled the book with a surprising amount of care as he pored over the illustrations. Phryne debated calling out for Mrs. Bowen; the woman had looked exhausted that morning though, her own children having had whatever malady had afflicted Anthony over the weekend, and sighed before returning to her own novel.
When Mr. Butler came in an hour later, Squirrel had wormed ever closer until he was pressed against her side entirely and had fallen asleep. She hadn't even noticed.
"Tea, Miss?" her unflappable butler asked, laying out the tea things so she could reach them without disturbing the child.
"Thank you," she said quietly, shifting the book off of Anthony's lap.
It was a collection of fairy tales, still open to the tale of Snow White; she trailed her hand across the beautiful watercolour illustration. She'd been fascinated by the story as a child herself, of a girl braving the harsh reality she found herself in; Phryne had had no intention of requiring the kindness of a woodsman to survive, but it had enthralled her nonetheless. It had even been her costume of choice for the first fancy dress ball she had been to after the war, and she hadn't stopped wearing her signature red lipstick since. It was funny, she thought as she sipped her tea, the memories that came at unexpected moments.
She stayed there for another hour, glancing down from her book from time to time to watch Anthony sleep. She'd never noticed the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose before, or exactly how long and dark his eyelashes were. She ran her hand through his wayward curls, smiling a little at the way they sprang back. There really was something endearing about him. A lost little boy, Jack had called him the other night, and she supposed he was right. She had always had a knack for finding waifs and strays. She stroked his hair once again and turned back to her book.
—
December 10th was a Saturday, which made Phryne's usual plans for the evening easier. Every year she would go out on the 9th and return as late as possible, sleep through most of the day, and spend the evening alone. She could remember Janey other days—not always easily, but with less sorrow—but the anniversary of her abduction was too big a shadow to be obliterated. So she kissed Jack goodbye and left Wardlow with a deliberate sashay she knew did not deceive him, secure in the knowledge that his arms would hold her close in the brief time their sleep schedules overlapped but he would otherwise let it pass unremarked, and loved him all the more.
The party was wild and raucous and fun, and Phryne drank a little too much and laughed a little too loud, and came home just as the sun was rising. She'd stayed out later in years gone by, but the promise of a warm body in their bed drew her back to St. Kilda; she danced her way through the door, the music still thrumming in her head, dropping her fur stole as she headed towards the kitchen for a pre-bed snack. She was halfway there when she heard quiet sobbing, and followed the sound to the nursery.
It was Anthony, out of bed but too scared to leave the room. And it was probably the drink and the date and the way he clutched onto the dog like it was his only port in a storm, but her heart hurt for him.
"Hello Squirrel," she said. "Have we had a bad dream?"
"Bad, bad Mims," the boy whimpered, and Phryne stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
She patted the mattress beside her, and he quickly scrambled up.
"Lie down," she commanded him gently, stroking his back when he complied. "There's no bad dreams here now."
She had told Janey the same thing many times, the two of them in one bed; as much as Phryne liked her bed spacious, the cramped quarters of her childhood were some of her fondest memories. Tears stung her eyes then, unable to forget that this was the day she had lost Janey; how Janey had leapt from their tiny bed that morning, singing some silly little song that was going around the neighbourhood, how they'd ducked beneath the canvas tent, how Phryne had watched the disappearing act and imagined it was their father only to turn and discover it was Janey instead.
Anthony whimpered, breaking her from her reverie, and she stroked his back again. The boy was almost asleep.
"There's no bad dreams here," she repeated, closing her eyes so the tears did not fall.
—
Waking up to an empty bed was no longer a familiar sensation, and it took Jack a moment to put his finger on the feeling. He was not greeted with Phryne's usual soaps and perfumes, or the smoky scents that clung to her when she collapsed into bed after a night of dancing. He remembered the date a moment later and sighed; she always came in late, but usually before he woke up at least. She did not appreciate his sympathy—he'd offered, the first year, to take the day off until he discovered that it was an anniversary she preferred to mark alone—but it comforted him to know what she was at least safely ensconced in bed before he left for the day. Still, with any luck she'd be home before then.
He got out of bed, pulling on his robe, and headed downstairs. After needing to make a last minute change of clothes multiple times, he'd learnt to dress after breakfast while Anthony was in the house. It felt indulgent, but his practical side won out as it often did. Dot had agreed to watch Ant at the cottage for the day, and Jack needed to drop him off before heading to the station to catch up on paperwork.
As he came down the stairs he saw one of Phryne's wraps laid upon the banister; perhaps she'd come home and not made it upstairs. He softened his steps and headed towards the nursery, hoping that Anthony would remain quiet long enough for Jack to get him out the door without disturbing Phryne from wherever she'd dozed off. Entering the nursery, he stopped short. She was sitting on the bed, back against the wall, and fast asleep; Anthony laid beside her, her hand resting on his back. An unfamiliar feeling—he quickly realised it was longing and promptly dismissed it—made him pause in the doorway for just a moment.
He padded over, hoping to extricate Anthony without waking Phryne, but as the boy was shifted she stirred as if to soothe him.
"Just me," Jack whispered, and she opened her eyes.
"He was..." she raised her hands and then dropped them again, neither completely awake or completely sober. "He was up when I got in and there was no, no point in..."
"Of course, Miss Fisher," he said, and that seemed to cut through some of the fog in her mind.
"I only sat with him for a minute, just so he could go to—"
"Go to bed, Phryne. I'll get Squirrel ready for Dot."
She looked at him, still half asleep. "You called him Squirrel."
"I did," he confirmed with a small smile. "It's still a ridiculous nickname."
She sat for a minute longer, her hand resting on the boy once more.
"After Janey… after Janey disappeared, I had the most awful dreams," she finally confessed. "Sometimes my mother would sit on my bed; I don't know if she was trying to comfort me or convince herself that at least I was there. I thought maybe it would help."
Jack looked at the sleeping boy, utterly content and firmly holding on to the hem of Phryne's skirt with the hand not clutching his damned dog.
"I think it did," he said quietly. "Do you need help getting up the stairs?"
Even drunk and exhausted she had a look of contempt that would make grown men weep.
"I am slightly inebriated, Jack, not…very in—inebriated?" her brow furrowed at that, but she carried on. "I still have full use of my faculties."
"And those faculties will take you up to bed and leave headache powders on the bedside table," he ordered. "I'll come in to dress, but I suspect you'll be asleep by then."
"Oh," she sighed, scrunching her nose. "My Jack. So bossy."
If she was laying claim to him, she was drunk indeed. He offered his hand to help her stand, and kissed her cheek when she did. Then she meandered out of the room and towards the back staircase, and Jack found himself staring at Anthony, who had managed to sleep through the entire conversation.
"Up we get, lad," Jack said, picking him up. "You and I have an appointment with Mrs. Collins, and while I will happily risk the wrath of Miss Fisher, Dot Collins is another matter entirely."
The boy looked at him, still half asleep, and yawned.
