Malleable, adj.: The precarious balance of love – to change each other without any breaks or cracks, just a slow alteration of form.
He doesn't allow himself to spend the night at Wardlow during the week. It is full of distractions and noise, and Phryne is generally unpleasant when she is forced to face the day at an 'ungodly hour' due to him daring to breathe as he gets ready for work. No, it is far less stressful (for all involved parties) to return to his own residence at the end of the evening unless it's to be followed by a day off. But a case had been solved the night before, and after finishing the bulk of the paperwork, Jack had gone to share a celebratory nightcap in spite of the late hour. And Phryne – particularly pleased by the part she had played in tying things neatly together – had been insistent on several fronts. One drink had become two. Then three. And his plan to remain in the parlour had somewhat fallen from mind by the time she had tugged him up the stairs.
Moving at all afterward had been out of the question.
Now it is dawn; Jack struggles to locate all his clothes and get out of this house and back to his, to shave and wash and change before heading to the station. He will not have time for breakfast. Probably won't even have time for tea. And when Phryne begins to stir on the bed, he's just as cross with her as he is with everything else this morning.
"Where have you put my tie."
Phryne frowns, but does not open her eyes. "How should I be expected to remember?"
"Because you were the one to pull it off."
"Why do you need a tie just to go across town to your flat?" She asks, without any particular care for the answer. She's almost asleep again. Would already be asleep, if not for him and all his damn noise.
Her point holds merit, but Jack has no plans to admit it. "I would just like to know where it is."
"By all means then, continue."
Jack sighs, torn between searching on principle and keeping in with his tight schedule. When he realises she's drifting off again, he changes course to her washing station and decide he can't be bothered today if he wakes her up. It's her fault he's here in the first place.
"Jack."
The voice from the bed is sultry. Beckoning. He'd like to refuse to turn around but she tends to find a way of making him pay attention when it's what she desires. He sighs again and straightens his spine before turning. And this brief second he takes to prepare himself is the only reason he can keep hold of his impassive expression when he's faced with Phryne, sitting up in the bed, legs splayed casually, wearing nothing but his absent tie knotted loosely around her neck.
"I found it," she says airily.
"So I see. Would you happen to have any intention of giving it back?"
"Not especially." She settles into the headboard, putting herself further on display. Jack holds her gaze, though he's very tempted to let his eyes drop to study other parts of her. "However, you're welcome to come and get it."
Jack clears his throat. Swallows. "I'm already running late."
"I'm sure we can both rise to the challenge," Phryne winks.
He rolls his eyes, but he cannot keep from walking to the bed and tugging on the tie in a delightful reversal of their typical roles until their lips meet. She's a little more compliant than usual – she tends to be, in the mornings. Before she has herself sorted. That, or she is not compliant at all – and the knowledge that she chooses to let him in her home, in her bed, in her quick, chaotic mind, fills him with a rush of happiness to which he is still cautiously adjusting.
"I need to go, Phryne." His eyes drop to the sheets as he draws composure.
She takes her time removing his tie and draping it around his own neck. Smooths her hands down his chest. "Do what you must, Inspector."
The corner of his mouth inches upward. "Try to stay out of trouble, Miss Fisher."
He heads to the station without breakfast. Without so much as a cup of tea. And Jack Robinson finds that he is not nearly as cross about it as he had been at dawn.
When Phryne wakes – for the second time – several hours later, she's still rather put out by the morning's events. Jack does not often spend the night during the week; she had forgotten why over the course of last night, mostly due to being engrossed in getting Jack into her bed, but a rude awakening – with the sun barely on the rise – had brought it all back rather abruptly. And then he hadn't even had the decency to make it worth her while before leaving. Well, never again.
With a new plan taking form, Phryne throws back the sheets and grabs her robe, flinging open the bedroom door and winding her arms through the holes of the silk garment as she flies down the stairs.
"Morning, Miss." Dot steps neatly out of her way at the bottom of the staircase, but Phryne is too preoccupied to register the near collision.
"Morning, Dot."
"You're very cheery this morning," Dot observes with a soft smile.
"As a matter of fact, I am, Dot. We have work to do."
"Has there been a murder?"
Dot follows Phryne into the dining room, sets aside her mending and pours the tea already waiting on the table.
"No murders so far. But a small dash of breaking and entering. Or is it unlawful entry? It's very difficult to keep the two straight. And we can't exactly ask the Inspector ahead of time, can we? In any case, we will be entering the premises by non-traditional means."
Phryne takes a bite of toast, and Dot nods after only the briefest hesitation. "I'll have Bert and Cec bring the car around."
The drive across town passes quickly, and Dot's brow develops a slight crease when Phryne directs them to a decidedly residential street with no alleys in sight for cover. She's prepared to stay in the car, but the lady detective has other plans.
"Come along, Dot."
Dot fixes her hat and hurries to open the door. Phryne is already halfway up the walk, and she's forced to step quickly in order to catch up.
"Is this about the Cunningham case, Miss?"
Phryne looks up from lock picking and Dot keeps an eye on the street, smiling as casually as she can manage at a passing neighbour.
"It's a little more personal than that."
Dot takes a moment to process this, and then the switch turns on.
"This is the Inspector's home, isn't it," she says, resigned. It isn't much of a question at this point.
"Excellent sleuthing," Phryne praises. With a loud click, the tumblers fall into place and Phryne swings the door open with flourish. Very much pleased with herself, she steps lightly across the threshold. Dot straightens her coat, exhales slowly, and dutifully follows.
Jack's tentative good mood is blown to bits when he walks into the station and is immediately bombarded with demands for attention from several constables he would have thought capable of handling a few small matters without his constant supervision.
It's a busy day full of petty crime and petulant law breakers; the mound of paperwork stacked precariously on Jack's desk doubles in height by noon, and is in grave danger of toppling. By two o'clock, it does indeed fall over (Jack leaves to make a cup of tea and shuts the door a little too firmly upon his return), sending files scattering across the floor of his office. He sighs and spends the next several hours restoring order. Finds his rhythm. Forgets he still has yet to eat today.
It's half four when the phone rings, and Jack reluctantly sets aside his pen.
"Detective Inspector Jack Robinson."
"Jack! Thank goodness. I need your help; it's an emergency."
Jack rolls his eyes; he has become quite adept at interpreting the nuances of her voice and whatever this is, it is certainly not classifiable as an emergency. "What have you done now?"
"Nothing yet. But who knows what sort of rash decisions I'll make if you don't make a hasty arrival."
Jack smiles a little in spite of himself. It's been a trying day; what he would like more than anything is a hot meal and the comfort of his own bed. But in the absence of those things, he could do worse than the company of Phryne Fisher. Reluctantly, he gives in.
"Give me four hours."
"Three."
"Four. I do have actual work to do."
He can practically hear her thinking through the line as she mulls this over.
"I suppose that will work. I'll have Cec and Bert stand in your place until you arrive."
"Phryne, that isn't what I-
She hangs up and he sighs. He isn't feeling particularly indulgent and he has half a mind to just leave her and her cabbies to it. But he makes another cup of tea and settles once again behind his desk, attacking his work with new vigour. His attention is split, going forward, between the steadily diminishing pile of paperwork and the resigned knowledge that Miss Fisher is likely burying herself deeper and deeper into trouble with each passing minute. By the three hour mark, his vision is beginning to blur and he forces his focus away from his developing headache.
"Collins."
"Sir." Hugh's voice reaches him before Hugh himself appears from around the corner.
"I'm stepping out."
"Yes, Sir."
"Don't stay too late. Mrs. Collins will have my head."
Hugh flushes with pride and drops his gaze as he laughs nervously. "I won't, Sir. Good luck."
Luck tends to be hit and miss when Phryne is involved. Jack has come to expect escaping with his life, but not without a head injury of some sort.
It's dark by the time he arrives. He barely manages to bring the car to a full stop before she appears at the car window.
"You're late."
He shuts off the vehicle. "I shouldn't be here at all."
"And yet you are."
He almost allows himself to smile. Almost.
Jack removes his overcoat and suit jacket before he leaves the car; experience and instinct tell him that they will do little to aid in his fitting in here. Phryne smooths his tie in a tender gesture of affection and then quickly turns on her heel and heads toward yet another run down building in a neighbourhood nearing shambles.
The air is already thick with smoke, the dock workers have clocked out and are already well into their pints. He clears his throat and forges onward; he's already lost her in the crowd. He's never sure what will be found when he's summoned by Phryne, but he's learned that it's best to prepare himself for decomposing bodies falling from the ceiling. It's almost guaranteed to be mostly up from there.
The red raggers are in the corner throwing darts. Under ordinary circumstances it would come as a surprise to realise he's noticed them before Phryne Fisher, who delights in being the first one seen in any room, but Bert is already particularly belligerent and the policeman in him is drawn to this first. They spare him a cursory glance, but they do not give him away. They get better with practice, he's noticed. He worries less now about outbursts from them mirroring the one at Café Replique years ago.
He finds Phryne near the bar, chatting amicably with a roguish barman who seems pleased with her company. Still lacking an irritating amount of detail, Jack orders a drink when there is a break in conversation and gives her a nod of acknowledgement.
"Ah, here's my hero," Phryne graces him with a wide smile.
"You called, I came," he answers dryly.
She laughs again. Drapes her arm around his shoulders and slips the other hand beneath his waistcoat. The gesture is undeniably intimate, and he does his best to look relaxed (though he honestly does wish that she would, upon occasion, have a little less faith in his capacity for improvisation and bring him up to speed ahead of time). She sends the barman a flirtatious wink.
"What did I tell you?" She drawls, lightly rubbing Jack's chest, moving so close they may as well be sharing a barstool. "Reliable, this one."
"More than those two?" The barman nods in the direction of Bert and Cec, and Phryne gives a dramatic roll of her eyes.
"Eric, you insult me."
So the barman does have a name. That's something, Jack supposes.
Eric shrugs unapologetically. "I have to ask, love."
Jack clears his throat and removes Phryne's hand from his chest. "Can we begin?" he asks gruffly.
The task, as it happens, is not difficult. On the scale of Ridiculous Things She Has Asked of Him, this mission barely registers.
Eric-the-barman is the owner of this upstanding establishment. He's also been known to host rather suspect card games from time to time. Phryne's amateur jewel thief has been known to participate. While Eric is a surprisingly modern man with no objections to beautiful women losing money at his tables, her suspect is decidedly less so; Eric is still as much under her charm as can be expected from any slightly seedy business man, but he will not allow her to participate if it is going to cost him, and he is wary of the cab drivers. She has frequented this bar during previous investigations, and though her cover had been left intact, Bert and Cec caused a hiccup that had evidently left a lasting impression.
All Jack has to do, Phryne informs him under her breath while Eric is busy with another patron, is play.
Jack is given a seat and offered another drink, and though he'd like to refuse it, it becomes clear that everyone at this table is expected to imbibe. Reluctantly, Jack takes a small sip and nurses it for as long as he can manage before being plied with another. He spends two hours at the table without any sign of Phryne's suspect, and though he drinks slowly, he hasn't eaten today and he can feel his mind clouding.
Cec and Bert join him, but are far gone enough to likely be more hindrance than help. Phryne may love them dearly, but the saving grace in a drunken brawl, they are not.
When the barmaid serving the card table slips outside for a smoke, Jack excuses himself under the guise of fetching another drink. In reality, he is reaching for an opportunity to stretch his legs and clear his head. Phryne is at the bar, and a small part of him relaxes. She's been floating about all night, working the pub with as much ease as she would any high society function. He wouldn't be surprised if her barman offered her a job before the night's end.
Phryne watches his approach and raises an eyebrow when Jack trips over a raised floorboard and does not catch himself as easily as she expects; she realises that he isn't acting. Not entirely, anyway.
He settles onto the stool beside hers. "Miss Fisher."
"Jack," she murmurs back.
Eric places a new drink in front of him and he nods his thanks. "I'm glad you're here."
"My my. How touching. I think I rather like the way alcohol affects you, Jack. When you're not yelling at me of course."
Jack gives an adamant shake of his head. "I'm serious."
"So am I. Mostly."
"You're the only one here with a clear enough head to still be of any use in the event of a crisis."
"You mean in the event you trip again and fall into someone like that large man in the corner wielding the billiards cue?"
As if she had planned it, they look over just in time to watch Cec stumble into the man in question. From a distance, they see Cec apologise and the man grudgingly brought around to Cec's genuine charm, until Bert rages in and yells something they can't make out before giving the man a hard poke in the chest.
"Oh no." Phryne winces.
Jack's eyes go skyward and he downs his drink, muttering about the general lack of dependability in her commie pets before he marches toward them. But he is not quick enough to prevent Bert from being struck in the face. Nor quick enough to prevent Cec from returning the favour in defense of his friend.
Phryne finishes her own drink and is fast on Jack heels into the fray.
It's a mess, and in the end, Phryne's suspect does not even make an appearance. A textbook brawl and some strong coffee (pulled from a thermos under the seat of the cab; Phryne thinks of everything or nothing. There is never an in-between) is enough to bring back total sobriety. Along with Jack's semi-dark mood. Phryne disappears with Cec and Bert and Jack is mostly relieved for the chance to return to his home, prepare a late dinner, and go to sleep.
He makes it four steps into the building before he pauses and cautiously sniffs the air (another day, he would have been far quicker to react). Phryne has been to his place before, but they tend to end up at Wardlow. Yet the faint smell of her perfume is unmistakable. He changes course and heads immediately toward the bedroom with the expectation that he will find her splayed across his bed, but while the scent of expensive perfume remains, Phryne is nowhere to be seen in the flesh. He shakes his head. It's been a very long day, and he's losing his mind. Thoughts of food are once again forgotten and instead he opens a draw to pull out some pyjamas.
Except the drawer is empty. Jack frowns and checks the next drawer. And the next. And finally the small closet which houses his suits and formal wear.
All empty.
What in God's name is she playing at.
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose and allows himself a moment for a deep breath before donning his coat and stepping back out into the cool night air, locking the door tight behind him.
Phryne is still awake when the light – yet firm – knocking begins on the front door. She's surprised, but not displeased. It's never anything less than delightful when Jack breaks his own rules. It doesn't occur to her that it could be anyone else.
"Evening, Inspector."
She is smiles and seduction when she opens the door, but both fade into confusion as she takes in Jack's obvious impatience. He couldn't possibly still be so disgruntled about the bar that he would drive all the way across the city to have an argument.
And then she remembers.
In her defense, she's impulsive; she can't be expected to keep track of all her ideas.
Jack's eyes narrow as the briefest hint of guilt flashes across her face. "I have half a mind to arrest you."
"What for?" Phryne has recovered her indignation in record time.
"You know what for. Breaking and entering, to start. Theft."
"Don't be silly, Jack. It isn't breaking in when the door's unlocked."
"That's correct."
"So what seems to be the problem?"
"The door was locked, Miss Fisher. As were the windows."
"You're certain?"
She's aiming for innocent, but that's never been a mask she wears particularly well, and Jack is not in the mood for it.
"Phryne, what have you done with my clothes?"
He's still standing on the porch and when Phryne gestures him inside, his hesitation is brief; he exhales and resigns himself to going to bed late and hungry.
"Come upstairs."
The eye-roll she receives in return is bordering on petulant, and it only serves to encourage Phryne's sense of mischief. Jack's emotional outbursts are few and far between; the smallest cracks in his composure are victories. She grabs his hand and pulls. She is not gentle. He does not expect her to be. His fingers curl around hers against his better judgement. He wouldn't have come tonight if a part of him hadn't been prepared for something akin to this.
Phryne doesn't stop at her bedroom, and Jack almost misses a step when he pauses at the entrance out of habit and she does not. Two more doors are passed, and in front the third – a guest room, if he recalls Wardlow's layout correctly – she finally stops just long enough to open the door and pull him through. The room is as beautiful as the rest of the house, though obviously less frequented. It's small (comparatively speaking) and he thinks it's possible Phryne placed Paddy in this room during his brief stay, but he can't recall it being used at any other time. He doesn't get the opportunity to give the room further thought; Phryne heads straight for the closet and flings open the door, revealing the majority – if not all – of Jack's clothes.
Jack tilts his head. "I don't understand."
"It's obvious, Jack," Phryne huffs. "Originally I thought that I could, perhaps, make room for your things in the main bedroom, but this was much easier."
Jack gives her a wry smile. "I've seen your closet. Mrs. Collins is forced to pack away garments on a weekly basis to keep up with you alone."
Phryne grins without apology. "Hence the amendment to the original plan."
"And yet it didn't occur to you to leave me with some warning before sending me off to a residence no longer containing a stitch of clothing."
"It slipped my mind."
"You forgot that you broke into my home and stole-
-relocated."
"Stole all my things-
"What else was I to do? You're very particular, Jack. I couldn't run the risk of you finding my choices unsatisfactory."
"Of course. How foolish of me."
"Now, should you choose to spend the night with blatant disregard for your schedule at the station, you can do so without waking before the sun and dragging me kicking and screaming into consciousness with you."
She does not make a habit of inviting men into her personal space. Jack has become the exception to so many of her rules, but she has yet to regret it. She knows the sentiment is mutual. Is as confident in this as she has ever been in anything else. They do not speak of it aloud, but they would not be here otherwise.
Phryne does not notice that her fingers are still entwined with Jack's until he tugs on her hand and brings her body flush against his. The kiss he places on her lips is gentle and familiar, as they have come to be on occasion. Jack is very good at interpreting her gestures. She experiences a moment of overwhelming gratitude for being so well matched.
"Do you like it?" She asks when they come up for air. They're standing close enough for her to tease his mouth with her tongue should she make the attempt. So she does. And it is several minutes before Jack gets another chance to answer her question.
"I like it very much," he says lowly. Simply. Her Jack. Her man of few words, but the most expressive eyes the world has ever seen. Or is it that she has simply learned to look? Phryne finds she does not particularly care to sort the semantics.
She kisses him again. Unbuttons his waistcoat and the first few buttons of his shirt in order to place her fingers close enough to his chest to feel his raw warmth through the thin material of his singlet.
"If you're interested," she begins with a focused, casual air that sends his guard up, "Mr. Butler put aside a plate for you. Quite unlike him to miscalculate the amount of food required for supper; it's being kept warm in the oven."
Jack breaks away from her rather abruptly, and it's his turn to pull her roughly in the direction of the stairs.
They eat in the kitchen. Phryne sits beside Jack, turned sideways so that she can swing her legs over his lap. The chatter is rather domestic, but she decides that there are worse things. Every so often, she steals a bite from his plate. Not because she's particularly hungry, but because there is something about being this close to him that calls for it.
When Jack finishes, the fog of hunger that has been hanging around him most of the day finally lifts. Sated and in no real hurry to go back home, he takes over stove duties after Phryne pulls out all the ingredients to make hot cocoa and then quickly grows bored of the task. He rolls up his shirtsleeves and Phryne perches on the counter. He gives her a pointed look, silently instructing her to behave, and she gives an equally pointed look in return, telling him the instruction will be unceremoniously ignored.
"I'll have to leave early. I left quite a bit of paperwork behind at the station today."
Phryne shrugs. "Assuming you can manage making it to the hall without waking all of Melbourne, I don't foresee any problems."
The corner of Jack's mouth twitches. "I don't believe in making promises I'm not absolutely certain I can keep, Miss Fisher."
Phryne's gaze narrows. "You'll do your best, if you know what's good for you."
"Perhaps I should err on the side of caution and go home."
"Perhaps you should. Be sure to take your shaving kit from the guest bathroom."
"You raided my bathroom?"
"These things happen when one leaves their front door unlocked."
"It was not unlocked."
"Let's agree to disagree."
The lopsided smile grows prominent. Jack takes the pot off the stove and carefully drains the contents into the mugs. Phryne blows gently on her share and watches Jack methodically wash the dishes. When he finishes, she holds out his mug and spreads her legs, inviting him to stand in the space between them. Jack accepts the mug, and Phryne wraps her legs around his waist, holding him in place. They drink slowly and when they are done, Phryne tightens her hold on Jack's waist to prevent him from parting to tend to their dirty mugs.
"I quite like the idea of convincing you to stay without plying you with whiskey first."
Jack smirks. "I'm not going to get any more sleep with this amendment to our arrangement, am I."
"Of course not, Jack."
He acknowledges this with a small shake of his head. "Shall we give it a test?"
Phryne pushes herself off the counter in response and Jack barely manages to catch her.
"To the bedroom, Jack."
"Yours or mine?" he asks with a straight face.
Phryne nips his shoulder. "Yours, mine, the stairs, the parlour… right here on the counter if you'd like-
Jack adjusts her weight in his arms and carries her toward the staircase with a laboured sigh. She laughs into his neck and tightens her grip. All things considered, it's been a very good day.