macerate, v.: This is why I pull away sometimes. To soak in love is to be weakened by it. Better to swim in it, then come back to shore.
Her grip on the gun weakens. She's distracted. All she sees is the intimate brushing of his jacket. The touch of their fingers. It isn't jealousy. She doesn't have the patience for that. At least, she never has before. But her chest contracts painfully and something very much like fear sparks inside of her when she sees the ease with which Concetta helps him into his coat. The way their hands linger. Jack doesn't do casual dalliances. It would be so much easier if he did. She's taken for granted that Jack would always just be… present. That she is the one with the whirlwind of interesting friends and connections.
Foolish. There's only so much time a person can spend reading alone.
It's possible she's made a very big mistake, and she can't be certain whether she finds it more upsetting that she may be losing him, that even now, she can't be sure what she wants – or that in all this time, she's never once thought to ask him about his friends ('old' and otherwise).
Her attention wanders during Vincenzo's initial interrogation. Generally, she's very good at multitasking; she can ask questions and tell charming stories (whatever is required of her, really) while paying rapt attention to her surroundings, but she finds that tonight she does not possess the concentration for both.
Hours later, Phryne and Jack are back where she is at her most comfortable; shared drinks while they discuss a case. Her glass holds significantly more than his. They are not in her parlour, but Jack's office adds to the intimacy. Phryne has no real evidence, but she is a lady detective and she is not bound by such laws; instinct tells her that Jack is not quick to use his office for this level of casual brainstorming, and instinct is enough for her. It does not often lead her astray.
She doesn't intend to bring up the presently-unnamed woman, but when the opportunity all but falls in her lap, she is not strong enough to hold her tongue.
"And this Fabrizzi, he was the husband of the woman at the restaurant; the one who was… brushing down your jacket."
She's trying to be subtle but he isn't easily fooled. Never has been. Is irritatingly resistant to her charms.
"Concetta." There is a hint of a smile. Jack has picked a fine time to tease her.
"She seemed to know you quite well."
"She's an old friend. I believe that's a term I've heard used."
Teasing. Definitely. She can't say she's enjoying this new – frustratingly coy – version of Jack. When had he become so fond of games?
'Old Friends.' It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. But the shouting coming from the front of the station means that she doesn't get time to ruminate. She is quiet (by her usual standards) as she studies Jack running interference between the two feuding families who seem to be seriously contemplating a fist fight right in the centre of the precinct. Quiet as she assesses the way her lower belly coils in pleasure when her staid Inspector raises his voice and slams a heavy volume onto the counter.
(It is not the power itself that attracts her. Rather that the power exists and he seldom chooses to use it.)
The tension in the room falls. The suspects leave the precinct, Hugh follows them out, and Jack returns to his office. Phryne stands lost in thought for several moments before she joins him.
It's more than professional curiosity that leads her to Strano's. To Concetta. She isn't sure what she is expecting to find, is even less sure of what she wants to find. But the arrival of Concetta's father brings her back to task. She puts Jack out of mind, and she focuses on the story unfolding at the table. She has only one thing (the important thing) on her mind when she breaks into Guido's.
But Phryne's concentration has proven decidedly fickle this case. For all her good intentions, it isn't long before she finds a new distraction. A familiar distraction. A welcome distraction.
She does not fraternise with the suspects while they are still suspects. Except when she does.
"you came back to the restaurant last night?"
"I had a few questions for Concetta." Two can be coy, Jack Robinson. She had practically invented coy.
"Did you get the answers you were looking for?"
"Too early to say." Phryne's unabashedly smug. She's just so pleased to have the aloof tone –the one which had fully abandoned her the evening before – back in her arsenal. But once she begins to speak, she cannot stop. "When you say 'old friend,' do you mean old friend like Dr. Mac, or old friend like Captain Compton."
Well. That had been short-lived. She hears her desperation. Damn him.
"Well, Concetta Strano hasn't saved my life from a burning plane wreck in Madagascar, if that's what you mean. Can I give you a lift?"
She is just about done with this new Jack Robinson who has apparently learned to wrestle away the upper hand. "No, thank-you; I have an appointment at the docks."
"Nosing around?" He returns to himself. Frustrated. Wound up by the idea of her doing exactly what he already knows she will do.
"I'll be careful," Phryne finds herself promising. She smooths his lapel as he stands close, not because it's needed, but to reassure herself that there is still space for her. That he is not far gone enough to step away from her touch. That her mistake has not been so big that she cannot come back from it. "Promise me you'll be careful, too."
In retrospect it's a large risk. It isn't until he holds her gaze and they continue their usual dance of eye contact that she realises how deeply it would have cut her to have him break away. She swallows and looks at the ground to compose herself, but leaves her hands on his chest. Jack has long since been accepted as a friend. A very close friend. Mac aside, the closest friend that Phryne has. His feelings for her are no secret, but the depth of hers are taking her by surprise. The feel of his overcoat is reassuring, and it is difficult to let go.
And because it is difficult, Phryne does it quickly.
She gives him a smile which she is certain does not reach her eyes and turns toward the cab. Jack notices. There's the smallest twitch in his brow and his gaze sharpens, but he makes no further inquiry. She wonders if he is filing the moment away to be discussed at a later date, or if he has already drawn his conclusion. She hope's it's the latter.
Phryne isn't particularly eager to have a discussion with Jack about their relationship when she has yet to sort her own feelings on the subject. Even now, she does not like the thought of being trapped in serious conversation. It is not what they do. They dance. Jack has never tried again, following the time he had walked out of her parlour after the car-wreck misunderstanding. She wants to believe that they would be better, now. But there are no guarantees.
When Phryne sits with Guido in the garden, her speech is already fully prepared. She doesn't have to give it any thought; it has, after all, been given on several occasions. Their parting will be amicable, but there will be a parting.
So she asks her questions and she gets her answers, and that is the end.
She wonders if men are really as blind to it as they often appear. If they genuinely do not consider the inevitability of this moment until they are facing it.
"Well, I need to ask more people more questions, so thanks for the wine."
"No no no. Bella, stay."
"I'm sorry I can't ravish you." These are words she has said before. The indulgent smile she has given before. She is not, in actual fact, sorry. "But I still need to find out who murdered Nona Louisa."
"But I think I have fallen in love with you."
The words are prettier in Italian than they are in English. Perhaps not as pretty as they sound in French. In Russian. In Arabic. Phryne Fisher has heard the declaration in more languages than she can speak. And her response is the same as it has always been.
"Perhaps. But I'm sure it will wear off."
She is careful with her heart. She is quick to end affairs before they have a chance to become serious. But the truth is, it isn't difficult. It doesn't hurt to cut ties. And she's wistful when she tells Guido that it will pass not just because she is aware that it will – that it eventually does for everyone. Anyone – but because she does not remember what it is like to feel new love, brief as it may be. Does not remember the thrill of falling. Of all fledgling possibilities bubbling in her chest. Does not remember how it feels to look at someone and believe, maybe… yes.
Pleasure, joy, excitement; these are old friends. But there are days she worries he (he does not get a name) took her capacity for love. Took a part of her she has not been able to rebuild. She sees the way that whirlwind romances affect others, but it is beyond her, now. She loves men for their bodies and occasionally for their minds and their friendship, but she has never felt for them the way that they have felt for her. Not since…
She does her very best to take nothing seriously. But there are days she is nostalgic. There are days she worries that her choice is not a choice.
"Whoever he is, he is a lucky man."
This is not part of the usual script. This should not be about Jack. But the nervous laugh Phryne leaves in her wake speaks volumes louder than any denial or deflection. Guido will recover. Jack would recover. Possibly has already. Concetta is lovely and she should be relieved that she will never have to do to Jack what she has just done to Guido.
Another drink shared. They are in her parlour this time, where they belong.
(the possessiveness of the thought startles her. She cannot pinpoint when she began to think like this)
He is irritatingly vague when she asks him about his night. It's true that he doesn't make a habit of asking about her social calendar, but damn it all, she wants an answer. Needs to know how far this has gone while she has been in the dark. And Jack has made himself unreadable. Like flipping a switch. One moment, she can see into his soul, and the next she may as well be attempting to cajole information from a brick wall.
What greater force is there than thwarted love?
A pettier person could be led to believe that this is turnabout for the Compton fiasco. But she knows him better. The universe, however, is not so easily let off the hook.
She knows Guido would have eagerly picked up where they had left off if she had changed her mind and returned. But he (Guido. Jack. Both of them. Either of them) has gone and ruined it.
"So what did you say you were up to last night?"
Now Jack is the one who won't let go. For two people usually disgustingly in sync, they cannot seem to stay on the same page this investigation.
"I didn't."
"Then why are you asking me?"
"No reason. It's called civilised conversation."
The change in pitch escapes her notice, but it does not escape Jack's.
The remaining pieces drop into place quickly. Their victim is proven vindictive. Cruel. Their murderer perhaps more victim than the victim. The young lovers do not win. No one gets what they want.
Gathering enough evidence to arrest Roberto Salvatore gives them back their sense of purpose in a case with an otherwise less than satisfying end.
Jack loses his temper. Phryne and Jack have been on the receiving end of more threats than she can count and he has never reacted so impulsively. They are all turned around this investigation, and Phryne cannot shake the niggling sense that they cannot go back. Not completely.
But she has recovered her ability to multitask. She is quick to raise her gun. Quick to put an end to any thoughts Antonio had of taking back control of the situation.
The feud is over. They are – once again – disgustingly in sync, and the tightening in her chest has nothing to do with adrenaline.
When Jack states that he has business to tend to following the wrap-up at the station, Phryne does not ask for further explanation. She knows where he is going; her instincts are on par with his. Dinner at Strano's has taken precedent over nightcaps at Wardlow, and there is no more wondering.
Jack and Concetta.
Phryne knows what she wants, now. And just like before, when she had tried to keep their conversation light as he stumbled his way though a confession of feelings following a death-that-wasn't, she realises too late. Jack will not be walking out of her parlour this time. Jack will not be visiting her parlour at all. She wonders if they can still be friends. Whether it hurts more to think of think of them as friends without all the flirtations and entendres, or not as friends as all. It proves difficult to really separate the one from the other. But if Jack has always managed, certainly she can as well. She can muster up the courage to convince him he needs her, but she does not know that she can keep it up for as long as it takes. For as long as it had taken the last time.
The entrance to the parlour is open and yet, she doesn't heard the knock on the front door. Barely registers Mr. Butler's announcement before Jack is standing in front of her holding a bottle of wine. Calm.
At rest.
That's the difference.
Jack has mastered appearing calm, aloof when he needs to be. Rational. Analytical. But he is rarely at rest. Phryne can be comfortable anywhere. Jack's stance may be calm but his eyes, those eyes, flit about taking note of exits and obstacles in their path, calculating (or perhaps simply desiring) quick escapes. He's comfortable at Wardlow. But now he is… at rest. It changes him. Softens him.
"Not eating Italian tonight, Jack." Phryne's voice is gentler than she would like it. Vulnerable. He's caught her off guard. But for all her previous doubts, it is a statement, not a question. Instinct once again prevailing over hard evidence.
"Strano's is closed."
His smile is subtle. Beautiful. Assured. Rusty. As if the muscles in his face cannot quite get used to the position. Something in Jack has settled. She will be intrigued, soon. For now, she is just catching up. But she is quick of mind, and it does not take long.
This is not a final send-off, performed out of a sense of duty and obligation by a man who lives his life adhering to a high moral code.
She adapts. Or rather, she forces the surroundings to adapt to her. She does not make a habit of yielding; only of making a situation her own. "Looks like you'll have to make do with me."
There. Much more like herself.
"Looks like we'll have to make do with each other."
They've been here before; it is their baseline. Neutrality. They step forward and they step back, but here in her parlour, moon high in the sky, drinks in hand, is where they end eventually. And begin, potentially. Perhaps. One day.
Phryne wouldn't do this with anyone else. Would not possess the patience or the attention span for this One Thing, over and over again with no marked change in the general result. Jack is an exception. Always an exception. He pours the wine. She moves from the chair and busies herself with the gramophone. If Jack can stop wallowing, so can she. She refuses to endure any more of these bizarre role reversals.
"Will you regret it, Jack?" She asks some time later. When the wine is gone and they are well into the whiskey and her tongue is as loose as the rest of her body.
Jack tilts his head to the side, gives this his full consideration. She appreciates this about him. He needs time to calculate his answers, but when he gives them, they are honest.
"No, Phryne."
The succinct response fills her with warmth. She blames it on the whiskey. It's certainly not his perfect cadence. The low tones. The enunciation that is every bit as careful as the man himself. And it's all that needs to be said on the subject.
She knows now. Knows that she feels things for Jack she hasn't experienced in a very long time. Knows she is not ready to act on it. Knows he will wait. Knows it may not be fair to him but he will stay. Knows that nightcaps in the parlour will be enough until she can know more. Until she can know enough. She will not change, and she is beginning to believe that she will not have to.