milestone, n.: In love we mark our own miles, because distance, like time, bends to our shared definition.
A Time Well Before 1918
It's a special treat for MacMillans the Younger when their father brings them to his practice. The hospital as a whole is Elizabeth MacMillan's favourite place in the world. On a particularly special Wednesday, a turn of good fortune gives bronchitis to Eliza's brothers, leaving her the only child able to accompany their father to work. However, a turn of bad fortune brings a large number of senior staff to the hospital for an important meeting, which means she is unceremoniously turned out by her father.
Evidently, it is frowned upon to allow young girls free rein in a medical facility.
Back home, she reads the encyclopaedias in the study until her mother orders her to assist with the mending. After one too many – allegedly incorrigible – comments on her part, Eliza is unceremoniously ejected from these premises as well.
Without her brothers for company – and because she is not explicitly ordered not to – Eliza borrows her oldest brother's bicycle and decides that this shall be the day she takes herself further than she's ever gone before. She doesn't often get the chance to venture out on her own (she can't get far on foot, even when the opportunity arises), and if she can't be at the hospital, only a very grand adventure can make for a suitable alternative activity.
She spends hours exploring, and her route eventually takes her past a row of pubs, already crowded. The large frames and the volume and the uniforms visible on the men outside smoking, boasts to the world that they play football. Already, Eliza is entirely bored by groups of loud men, and she wouldn't so much as slow down if not for a girl running across the road at precisely the moment she rides past the entrance.
A collision is avoided – just barely – and largely credited to Eliza's reflexes.
(The small girl without any sensibility or value of her life is certainly no help in the matter)
But it comes at a cost, and Eliza is pitched over the handlebars.
"Are you alright?"
Eliza stares incredulously at the girl now looming over her. When a second girl, younger, appears, Eliza is quick to stand and brush the dust off herself. "Didn't your parents teach you to look before dashing into the street?"
"Is this your push bike?"
In her indignation it takes a moment for Eliza to find her answer. Apparently this Silly Thing has never been taught to apologise, either. "It's my brother's."
"Can I have a go?" She's already running her hand over the frame. Eliza gives it an angry tug away.
"No!"
A frown appears and disappears in quick succession. The girl stands taller and stretches out her hand. "I'm Phryne. Phryne Fisher." She gestures to the small child beside her. "This is my sister, Jane."
Jane takes a step closer to her sister and stares at Eliza without blinking. Perhaps she's afraid there will be a fight. Perhaps she is not entirely off the mark.
"Elizabeth," she answers, though she doesn't know why she bothers. "Everyone calls me Eliza."
Phryne taps her chin. "You don't look much like an Eliza."
To her great embarrassment, she feels her face beginning to flush."Right. Well, I'm off. You might say 'thanks', next time, instead of touching what isn't yours without permission and insulting people."
"Don't be like that. I only mean it's a rather ordinary name for a girl who can ride as well as you."
"Names have nothing to do with any of that," Eliza mutters. But most of the bite has (begrudgingly) left her tone.
"We're going to a football match; want to join us?"
Eliza crinkles her nose. "No, thanks."
"Come on. It will be a good spot of fun. Mother doesn't like it, but Father couldn't care less so long as I'm smart about my bets. And it looks as though it might rain today; you can really watch their muscles at work when it rains."
"No, thanks." Eliza repeats. The incredulity has snuck back into her tone, caused by both the pushiness of the request and the notion that it could be considered worthwhile entertainment. The day had been full to the brim with possibility when it begun, and she can feel them all slipping away.
"Don't you like watching men?" Phryne asks, as it has not yet occurred to her that one may not.
Eliza shrugs. "I suppose I have nothing against it. They're just rather uninteresting."
Phryne considers this very seriously. Across the street, the football players exit the bar and begin (loudly) making their way toward the fields down the road.
"Well, what would you prefer to do?"
Eliza sighs. This one did not take hints well.
"I'm running late as it is. I don't really have time to-
"Oi!"
Eliza is interrupted by a hulking giant of a man stalking across the street.
"Oh no," Phryne mutters.
Jane, who had tentatively moved herself into plain sight, retracts behind her sister once more.
They barely know one another, but regardless, Eliza is not the type to leave a person (clearly disadvantaged for this confrontation) alone.
"Where's your father hiding?" He yells as he approaches.
"You're hardly the person I'd tell even if I knew." Phryne snaps.
The trace of fear building in Eliza is chased away by shock. She has never seen a child address an adult in such a manner. Could never have imagined taking that tone. Her jaw practically hits the ground. Children coming out of bars and speaking to grown-ups: she feels as if she had stumbled into another world entirely.
The decidedly suspect character has reached them by this point, and he towers menacingly over the three young girls. He doesn't seem surprised by Phryne's forward speech exactly, but he doesn't appreciate it either.
"Twenty pounds he owes me. You tell 'im I'm looking for him."
"Tell 'im yourself," she retorts.
Eliza notices that Phryne stiffens even as she makes this bold declaration. Eliza assumes this stems from the fear that has been instilled in herself and all children – even the bold ones – when any sort of adult communication is involved. But when he takes a step closer, the physical threat finally registers. Perhaps Phryne isn't as oblivious to her surroundings as she appears.
Before he can carry through, his attention shifts. Whether it's the red hair or the bike that draws his attention, Eliza can't be sure. But she is immediately resentful of both.
"You're not from these parts, are you, little girl."
Inside, she's quite frightened. But she feels the same competitive swell she experiences in the presence of her brothers. If Phryne can be calm and defiant here, she can be the same. "Near enough."
He turns back to Phryne. "Your mate's push bike looks expensive. What do you suppose it cost; around twenty pounds do you reckon?"
Eliza swallows and prepares to hand it over. Because she is brave, but she is not stupid.
Phryne, it turns out, happens to be both.
When he steps toward the bike, Phryne kicks him hard in the knee. She's small – smaller than Eliza, and that is not something Eliza experiences often – but she can evidently pack a punch because the adult man immediately recoils in pain.
While Eliza slips into stupefied shock, Jane jumps onto the handlebars of the bike. She is perfectly balanced on the first try; her bird-like bones easily leaping into the air and floating gracefully into a well assumed position. Young Jane, it seems, is accustomed to this sort of adventure.
Phryne nods at Eliza and bolts. Bolts. Eliza feels betrayed until Jane prompts her with such a soft command of 'go!' she very nearly misses it.
Eliza is absolutely unaccustomed to not being the strongest personality in the room. Unaccustomed to following orders from children her age. Unaccustomed to standing still because she had not been smart enough, fast enough, to pick up on the hints provided. Sufficiently spurred into action by this previously unexperienced stab of inadequacy, Eliza pushes off and pedals with all her might, the curses of the would-be thief at her back.
She catches up to Phryne in a matter of seconds and checks her speed, slowing just enough to keep Phryne in front of her as the girl darts between buildings and through gaps in fences. She notes that, while there are plenty of nooks and crannies which would fit a child, Phryne sticks to the spaces which will also accommodate a bicycle. She has a certain begrudging respect for this attention to detail. Thank goodness for small favours. Phryne comes to an abrupt halt and Eliza is forced to do yet another hairpin turn to avoid running her over. At least she manages to stay on the bike this time.
"You're insane. You're actually insane."
Elizabeth MacMillan is breathless, and this cuts some of the sting out of the statement. Perhaps that is why this odd girl is unaffected by the words and fails to burst into tears in the manner she has come to expect of children her age.
(It is not, in fact, the reason. But she will come to learn this soon enough and she will be all the more endeared by it)
"You might say 'thanks'." Phryne parrots.
"What's it to you? It isn't your bicycle." Eliza retorts. Her breathing is slowing, and she stands straight as the stitch in her side eases. She eyes her newfound companion suspiciously and wishes – not for the first time today – that her brothers were not ill. They were much better at following direction than this dark haired lunatic with the strange name. She doesn't even want to get started on how little she feels she can trust the other one.
The doll-like blonde in question looks up at her sister, her breath still coming in quick gasps.
"Father is going to be furious, Phryne," she forewarns, with the confidence of one who has been right about such things many times in the past.
"What Father doesn't know can't hurt him. Or us," Phryne responds with equal confidence.
"Why couldn't you just leave it alone?" Eliza (just barely) resists the urge to stomp her feet.
"It's important to you." Phryne says adamantly. "I won't let you lose something important to you on account of my father."
Her eyes dance furiously and Eliza begrudgingly concludes that she could likely do worse in the playmate department than Phryne Fisher. Still, she can't help questioning Jane's reliability. Of the three of them, she certainly looks as if she would be the one to crack under pressure.
"She isn't the type to lag, is she?" Eliza asks.
Phryne's head snaps toward Eliza, eyes flashing. "I'm far more concerned with what you might say. Janey is as loyal as they come."
"Tell my parents? And set myself up for a good whipping?" She scoffs. "That's unlikely."
Phryne steps close into her space and Eliza reflexively balls both hands into tight fists. But after a moment, Phryne grins. Once Eliza is certain she is not about to be punched, she relaxes. And soon, she is grinning as well.
"I like you, Eliza."
Eliza tilts her head and gives this some thought. "I think you may be the sort of friend which Father says it takes 'getting used to,' but my brothers are sick and we should have enough time for me to like you too."
It isn't the answer Phryne expects, but she's intrigued by the honesty and by the spirit. She has a very good eye for kindred spirits. And though Janey is quiet as ever in front of their new playmate, Phryne can tell that she likes her. Anyone Janey likes is worth liking. Eliza will come to appreciate what an honour this is; it usually takes Janey weeks to speak in front of strangers.
"It's getting dark; if I'm not home in time for supper, I'll be in for it," Eliza says.
The concepts of curfews, of being required to return home for a specific time, are foreign to the Fisher girls. Janey gives her older sister a curious raising of her eyebrows, and Phryne merely shrugs.
"Will we see you tomorrow?" She asks.
"Yes," Eliza says, quite firmly. She's never had to run from an adult before, but she does not regret the thrill. Her irritation has faded alongside the danger of being caught. "Tomorrow."
Once Eliza's brothers make their recovery, the bike is no longer hers to borrow as she pleases. Her days are much as they were before. When she does see Phryne and Jane, their friendship is easy. Janey comes with them everywhere. The outing usually ends with them sprinting away from the scene of some petty crime. On occasion, Eliza's smooth speech saves them from the need to run at all. From this, Phryne learns that the delicate approach can be as effective as a swift kick. They adopt the skills of the other that they find admirable, and mostly ignore the skills which they do not.
They are a strange pair from the very beginning. While they become fast friends, they forgo the period of new childhood kinships in which they cannot bear to be parted. Phryne and Eliza are very often parted. Phryne already has a right-hand woman (read: underling) in her sister, and Janey is much easier to bring around to her manner of thinking. As for Eliza, she has a father to follow into medicine and three older brothers with whom to alternately compete for his affections, and keep her busy in a far more amicable fashion. It is inarguably nice to have a friend who is not irritatingly bigger and stronger, but she prefers to keep company with people who are a little easier to control, thank you very much.
They get older and the sisters often find themselves at the MacMillans' table. Eliza occasionally finds herself at the table of Phryne and Jane's aunt. Phryne and Jane do not invite her into their own home. They get older still, and Eliza understands why.
"I've been thinking." Phryne begins one day. It is summer and it is beautiful, and they languish on Aunt Prudence's expansive lawns, a short distance from the pool. Eliza raises her eyebrow and lets her expression speak for itself. Phryne rolls her eyes. "Are you going to work at the hospital with your father?"
Eliza shrugs and rolls onto her stomach, careful to keep in the shade. She has learned the hard way – many times over – that the summer sun is not her friend. "I'd rather not. But I'll go to whatever hospital will have me, I suppose. At first, anyway. I won't have much choice in the matter."
"Won't that get confusing? Five Dr. MacMillans?"
"I don't bloody know, Phryne. What are you getting at?"
"I just think that an extraordinary person such as yourself deserves a title of their own. No offense to your father and brothers."
"You could shorten it." Jane suggests. "Dr. Mac. Or just 'Mac,' when it suits you."
That's all it takes. Jane is the original thought, and Phryne is the charming freight train who gets it to stick. Eliza's father has little patience for Phryne's bold speech, but her mother is delighted by it (arguably more than she is delighted by her own daughter). Her parents use the moniker ironically at first, and then less so. Mac's older brother is quick to show how readily he will jump on board with anything Phryne believes to be a good idea. Pathetic. Mac (as she is now unquestionably known) suspects that she will have to keep a closer eye on the two of them. Any snogging is sure to be a great inconvenience to her.
Soon (relatively. Everything between them is relative) they reach their defining crossroads. Phryne and Andrew's rising flirtation falls away from the minds of all involved parties.
(A chance meeting after the war changes things. But that's another story)
"Where have you been? It's been weeks." Mac snaps.
Phryne doesn't answer.
Phryne has never before this not had an answer.
They're still children, but they've grown old enough for Mac to realise – slightly too late – that something is very wrong. Phryne doesn't look her in the eye. It's at this point that Mac takes note of Janey's absence. It's never occurred to her before now that she has never seen one without the other. She can't quite decide on which part of this is more peculiar.
"We're leaving for England. Forever."
Mac makes a face. "Why would anyone want to live there?"
Phryne swallows and attempts to take her eyes off the ground, but it doesn't last long. "Something terrible happened to Janey. Mother and Father say they can't stay here. They can't…" her voice trails off and a series of sniffles soon turn into a flood of tears. "But what if she comes back, Mac? It's only been a few days; grown-ups don't know everything. What if she finds her way home and we're gone… she'll be all alone. She's never been alone…"
A deep fear builds in Mac's stomach. She is old enough to understand that there is bad in the world. Sadness. Unhappiness. But evil has been an experience recognisable in definition only, until this moment. Something terrible has happened to a friend. And this means terrible things can happen to her brothers. To her parents. To herself. Phryne will never again be the girl she had been Before, and a piece of Mac similarly falls away. She wants to cry as well.
Her arms instinctively fold around her strange friend – it has only been a few years since they first crossed paths, but meeting Phryne has taught Mac another adult lesson. When the right people fall into one's path, time is relative. They had known one another their entire lives from that very first day.
Phryne tucks her face into Mac's neck until her breathing slows. When she pulls away, she finally meets Mac's eye. They are solemn. Still.
Yes. They are no longer the girls they had been.
Mac clears her throat. "You can leave a note for her. Somewhere she would think to look. I can check for a reply every Saturday after my chores are finished."
There is a tiny flicker of… something, in Phryne's eyes. The vacancy is quick to return, but this is enough to inspire confidence in Mac that her less-than-inspired idea is not without help.
"You're a good friend, Elizabeth MacMillan."
There is a park in Collingwood which backs onto a forest. The Pirate Girls claimed it as their own long ago. In this forest, lichen grows especially wild on a large tree. When Phryne had learned – by chance – that the odd growths shared a name with something dark and mystical, she had insisted it become one of their spots. And so Mac visits the lichen infested tree every Saturday until another missing young girl gathers enough attention, and Mac's parents put an end to her solo wanderings. Soon after that, there is an arrest. Then a trial. Only one charge is pressed, but there is suspicion of at least one other. Her parents discuss it at length because they do not think she is listening. Because they do not realise what this individual has already taken from her. And Mac drafts her first letter full of adult-level sorrow and sends it off to England.
A Time Much Closer to 1918
Medical school is easy. Mac has never given much thought to the opinions of others, and she gives even less thought to the opinions of fools. Medical school, it turns out, is full to bursting with fools. But the war is more difficult. Fools in positions of power lead to deaths, and prejudice combined with general incompetence is no longer the source of bemusement or entertaining anecdotes it had once been. She is tired in her bones. Fighting for treatment courses she knows to be correct and fighting to keep humans alive leaves her fighting practically every hour she spends awake. Mac is made of stern stuff, and when she gets the opportunity to sleep, she sleeps deeply.
(It will be many years before she begins to dream again. She is luckier than most)
She gets the opportunity to see Phryne in France, when it appears that an end to the war may be on the horizon. It's the first time they've seen one another in several years but everything is easy. They are not the girls they were, but they are connected.
(This is both more whimsical and more dramatic a sentiment than Mac would generally allow to stand, but Phryne is insistent, and it is rarely worth Mac's time to argue such matters. This is clear even when they are communicating through post alone. And she can't come up with a reasonable enough refute regardless)
There is a nurse in Phryne's unit named Katherine, and Mac gets off with her spectacularly (in all senses of the word). Her life has been comprised of medicine and very little else for years now, and the root of her apathy when it comes to men has revealed itself only relatively recently. It's thrilling to feel… to feel. Though she understands that dangerous circumstances and adrenaline are often heightening what is already there. A boarding house has been converted – like so many buildings – into a makeshift hospital. There are no beds to spare, but Mac and Katherine make use of every dark corner and closet available to them. No one is watching. There is a war going on. If Mac were a less practical soul, she might have squandered time ruminating the fact that it takes world wars for people to straighten out their priorities enough to mind their own business.
Phryne has some rich sap or another wrapped around her finger by her second week in France, and he leaves his extravagant manor open to her when he is out of the country. Phryne naturally extends the invitation to her (already, oldest and dearest) friend. Katherine and Mac have just finished a very thorough and cathartic fuck in the master bedroom. Nearly forty hours of work following a bombing, and they awoke from five glorious hours of dead sleep with the energy of live wires. Now they sit against the headboard, sheets pooled around their waists, cigarettes burning in hand far too quickly.
"And to think, Phryne's known you all this time and never once thought to tell me about you until you arrived. I'm rather offended."
Mac chuckles and takes a long drag of her cigarette, then blows smoke slowly into the clouding air.
"Best not to strain yourself untangling her thought processes. It's very seldom personal."
The front door located on the floor below opens and slams, effectively announcing the arrival of the woman in question moments before her voice carries up the stairs.
"Mac? Are you here?"
Mac pointedly raises both eyebrows and puts out her cigarette on the nightstand ashtray. Katherine reaches for her nightshirt at the end of the bed. Mac can't be bothered. She and Phryne may be recently reunited, but they are not so much changed.
There's a cursory knock, but the door opens before there could have possibly been any response.
"Hello!" Phryne greets cheerily.
"How kind of you to join us."
"I had grand plans to surprise you both with good coffee, but they fell through."
"Accepting defeat?" Mac teases lightly. "How very unlike you."
Phryne laughs and collapses on top of the sheets, forcing her friends to move their legs or be crushed. Katherine takes this opportunity to slip out of the bed and gather her clothing from the floor.
"I should go back," she apologises.
Mac acknowledges this with a wink and Phryne gives a friendly – if tired – wave. It doesn't appear that she's slept yet. Mac recognises the inability to focus on any one spot - the borderline delirium - from her own arrival approximately six hours earlier.
"When are you due back?"
Phryne gestures vaguely. "I'm covered for a few hours."
Mac nods and climbs out of bed. "Use them more wisely than I did."
Phryne's eyes have already closed, but the smile she gives in response is bright and wicked. "I'm sure it was worth it."
It Is Past 1918 (And They Do Not Dwell On This Period of Phryne Taking Things Seriously)
Two years pass before she and Phryne meet again. Belgium, this time. Mac is there for a women's medicine conference. She's a long way from home, but she wants to learn; she will go where she must to make this happen. Phryne's last letter had answered Mac's questions succinctly, and suggested a date and location for meeting following her arrival.
Nothing is wrong with the letter exactly, it's just… without Phryne's exuberant embellishments, it reads rather like a letter Mac would have written herself. She admits to occasionally skimming Phryne's letters – she doesn't possess the patience for flowery narrative, but the lack of it is jarring. She flashes back to the last time they saw one another as children and cannot rid her mind of the belief that something is amiss. But she ignores the dread creeping into her throat because there is no point in getting worked up before she has context. Besides, there isn't anyone left in the world whose absence can hurt Phryne the way Jane did. Does. Phryne's parents will always be her parents, but Mac suspects she is the closest thing Phryne has to family.
They meet at the agreed time and place and right from the beginning, to Mac, it is very clear that Phryne is playing a part. She's trying very hard, and here is the giveaway. Because Phryne Fisher has never had to try.
There's a certain skittishness, a distinct lack of mischief, in Phryne's general demeanor. The acting itself is not unusual for Phryne, rather the quality. They've known one another for most of their lives and even Mac sporadically has difficulty separating the act from the genuine article. Right now, the act is on the level of a cheap school play.
She's beautiful. She's always been striking, always turned people's heads. But there is a refined reservation to her motions now that she has never had before. Bright lipstick and dark eyes, expensive clothes which highlight her – many – good features. The Phryne Fisher whom Mac knows can (and does) make friends anywhere. This one is unobtainable. Museum art.
Like her mother, Mac realises. Like her mother, with better clothes.
"You're sure you're alright, darling?"
"You know me, Mac." Phryne deflects with a laugh. "There isn't much of anything that can keep me back for long."
"You do have a cat-like penchant for landing on your feet." Mac responds dryly.
Phryne tries to laugh, but ends up clearing her throat instead. Her eyes brighten for just a moment before she stares fixedly at the table, lashes fluttering furiously.
The feeling of déjà vu returns.
"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" Mac presses gently.
Phryne clears her throat again and recomposes her features. Straightens her spine. Looks Mac in the eyes and lets herself be sad. "Another time, darling." She offers a weak smile. "I'm a touch too ashamed at the moment. But that will pass. Everything passes."
"Not us. Not me." Mac's adamant. It should sound contrived, but it doesn't. Not when it's her.
Phryne's smile widens to very nearly the real thing.
"Never us. We are constant and unchanging. Our very existence defies every law of the universe." She raises her glass of whiskey with flourish. "Hang the universe."
Mac outwardly rolls her eyes. Because it would be odd (from her) if she didn't. Inwardly she can't help but feel a stab of relief at the brief return of Phryne's flair for dramatics. "You would think yourself significant enough to register on the radar of an entire universe."
She finishes her drink and orders another. The wink Phryne sends her is all sass as she does the same. The food is delicious and while Phryne has a bite ready on her fork throughout, by the time they are getting ready to leave the restaurant, the food has been scrambled about the plate but not consumed. These are not details that Mac is supposed to notice, so she lets them slide. In all their meetings that follow over the course of the next few days, the practice is much the same.
Phryne is trying. It is not Mac's place to rush her. To tell her how to heal from what has wounded her so deeply. Everything passes. Mac doesn't hold blind faith in many things, but she holds blind faith in Phryne Fisher.
She's back in Australia two months before she hears from Phryne again.
Dearest Mac,
The timing of your visit was rather unfortunate; I was very much not myself. Paris and I did not part on good terms after the war. I've always had a weakness for artists. This particular artist had a weakness for weakness. Poor judgement was executed.
A few broken bones, a fresh start, an inherited title, more money than I could possibly spend, and some months later, I am restored.
That's all we ever need say about it.
I'll be leaving Europe soon. The world is vast and I want to see as much of it as I can. I'll send you an address as soon as I have one. Please check in on Aunt P when you can; it's a lot to ask of you, I know, but you're the only one strong enough for the task.
The Honourable (Ha!) Phryne Fisher
P.S.: Andrew is here visiting a friend of a friend of mine; we were serendipitously reunited at a party last week. We recognised each other instantly. I find it highly suspicious that you neglected to tell either of us we would be in such close proximity to one another. No matter; we reacquainted ourselves. Over and over. For hours and hours.
The details trickle through in bits and pieces over the years. Mac learns his name, but it is very rarely used. Names carry power. There are now two names Phryne and Mac to staunchly avoid. Mac has never been one to ask for more than a person is willing to give.
They grow. The world changes. They do not, so much. Phryne burns through men and adventures (often at the same time) and it is rare for Mac to catch her in the same place for longer than it takes to exchange a couple letters. They make their own circles of friends, colleagues, reluctant acquaintances, lovers. In a similar sense to when they were children, they drift apart, but they always end together. Phryne begins to refer to them as a tide. It is another fanciful notion to which Mac cannot be bothered to expend the effort objecting.
Mac is one of the first doctors hired for the new women's hospital. The other doctors are surprisingly competent (for men), and her biggest challenge is the board of directors; she is entirely too abrasive for their preferences. But she is confident and she is smart, and the firm support of Phryne's – board member – Aunt settles the issue for the time being. Mac suspects Phryne has something to do with Prudence's change of heart. As a thank you, she procures for Phryne an internal device of exceptional convenience.
Thank heavens every man in every mailroom is entirely oblivious on the subject of highly illegal female contraceptives.
Phryne expresses her gratitude by recounting the dalliances experienced with the device in question. In graphic detail. They are the children they were, only wiser and richer. Life is good. Life is very good.
When the first cursed name between them begins to make headlines again, Mac does her duty, just as she had twenty years ago. This time, they do not have to wait six weeks for the letter to arrive.
FOYLE UP FOR PAROLE STOP
Less than a day passes before there is a reply.
COMING HOME STOP
1930
They're looking for a perfume bottle. Phryne is positive she's cracked open her most recent murder investigation, and she calls the police. Of course. But Jack is settling an incident in one of the cells and he's been under the weather as of late to begin with, so she leaves a message. And she can't very well be expected to wait.
Mac, on the other hand, is a different sort of public servant. A public servant who needs to work on being less accessible to troublesome friends during working hours. Because certain troublesome friends have no qualms about cornering her at work and being a nuisance.
"This is one of the most ridiculous things you've ever done."
"Not even close, Mac," Phryne responds, without granting her the courtesy of even turning to face her. "And you agreed."
"Don't I always?" Mac continues to grumble. "My participation does not validate the plan; it only proves that I take complete leave of my good sense, spending time with you. Even though I really ought to know better."
"Come now, Mac. You know you wouldn't be here if you truly didn't want it."
"And you know that the only reason you asked me along was because your beloved Inspector caught his death of cold during your last equally risky adventure, and he has yet to fully recover."
"He's recovered enough," Phryne simpers suggestively.
"Ah. So help me, Phryne, one more word of your and Jack's naked tangos and I will see myself home."
"Since when do you balk at talk of a little sex?"
"Since I came to know Jack Robinson like a brother. It's bad enough you fucked Andy-
"That was very nearly a decade ago, Mac."
"It was my birthday!"
"In any event, unlike Andrew, Jack is not your actual brother. And while we're being technical, I had established a relationship of sorts with him well before you began working with Homicide."
"So he's more your brother than mine?" Mac quips drily.
"Don't be disgusting."
The headlights of a motorcar coming up the drive shine in the window, almost fully illuminating the dark room. Phryne and Mac instinctively press themselves against opposite sides of the glass. Once the lights pass, Phryne yanks open the nearest door and gestures Mac ahead of her.
Mac raises an eyebrow. Her friend has truly spent too much time with the Inspector, to be honestly under the impression that she can be forced to blindly enter an unlit room on her say.
"Would you rather stay out here?" Phryne whispers.
"I like my odds. I can certainly outrun you in those shoes."
"Hush. Get in."
Mac does so. Reluctantly. They're now trapped in a very small closet, and both would really rather Jack be the one experiencing this in Mac's place.
The front door opens. Their suspect's father is heavy, and they can easily discern his movement through the house. Which would be a good thing if not for the fact that this leads Phryne to believe they can safely continue their search. With him only a floor above them.
"We're leaving, Phryne."
"Just one more minute."
"We leave now, or the next time I see Jack, I tell him all about Sarah Jennings and the horse and the-
"You wouldn't." Phryne doesn't often sound scandalised, but Oldest and Dearest Friends have access to humiliating corners of one's past closed off to others.
"I absolutely would, to prove a point. And you know it."
Unfortunately, they are not nearly so quiet as they would have themselves believe. The home owner calls the police (likely during their heated discussion in the confines of the closet). So when Mac flings open the door, prepared to storm through it without so much as a backward glance to make sure Phryne follows (Phryne has confidence in spades, but there are events even she would rather stay buried), there is a police car already quickly making its way up the drive.
"Walk quickly. They haven't seen us yet." Phryne murmurs.
They walk quickly. And then they are caught. Quickly. And when they're caught, they are lucky enough to have it be at the hand of none other than Senior Constable Hugh Collins. Needless to say, they do not learn any lessons. Hugh makes the dutiful attempt to deliver Jack's usual lecture, but it is rather less than impactful.
Senior stripes or not, they have known Hugh for too long.
"Furthermore-
"Yes, yes, Hugh. We're terribly sorry we were caught. We will be sure to never let it happen again."
Hugh is satisfied for a beat, and then he processes the sentence and frowns. Mac openly smirks and cuts in before he can reply.
"We'll see ourselves home, Constable. We don't wish to inconvenience you any further."
They can see the wheels turning in Hugh's mind. Ultimately, he heaves a resigned sigh and gestures them forward.
"Ladies."
Phryne gives him a bright smile as she passes. Mac tips her hat. Hugh waits until the car disappears down the road and then he telephones the Inspector.
The Years Just Blend at This Point
The weekend comes. It is not so different from weekends past. They're deep in the whiskey now. Neither one of them are prone to indulging to the point they begin to lose their wits, but Wardlow is a safe space. Phryne's parlour, specifically, safer still. They have seen one another at their worst and their best, and nothing quite compares to the ease that accompanies keeping with a lifelong friend. There are days when such a relationship can be more curse than blessing, but today is not one of them.
Phryne slides off the couch in favour of lounging on the floor, and Mac sinks further into her preferred armchair. They've taken turns mentioning the late hour, but neither party seems to be in any rush to bring things to an end. Mac has a rare day off tomorrow, and though their pool of friends runs deep, Mac decides that tonight, they are to be elitist about the company they keep. She hasn't asked where Jack is, but she suspects that he has locked himself in one of the rooms upstairs until he deems the coast clear. She can't blame him. She's grown fond of the Inspector and he's proven himself capable, but he is no match for her or Phryne. Let alone the two of them together.
Then the front door opens.
Phryne's eyes reflexively brighten, and Mac still cannot help finding it strange to see her best friend so at ease with another man coming in and out of her home by means of his own key.
Phryne makes a rather lewd hand gesture, indicating that she knows exactly where Mac's thoughts presently lie. Mac laughs and lights a cigarette, offering one to Phryne even though she knows it's unlikely to be accepted.
Phryne shakes her head and wraps her arms around her knees. "Jack!" She calls.
They can hear his footsteps hesitate on the stairs. A few moments pass (during which Mac is certain he's weighing the positive and negative effects of simply continuing and pretending he has not heard the request, poor man) but the direction of the footsteps changes and grows closer.
Jack opens the door, but does not step into the room. "Miss Fisher. Dr. MacMillan." He greets them with a nod of his head and the barest hint of a smile. "Good evening. I'll admit, I'm somewhat surprised to see you home so early."
It's well past midnight. Jack may or may not be joking. It isn't always clear at first.
"We were forced to make a quick exit from the nightclub; your men were very sympathetic to our situation. City South constables truly are the most accommodating, aren't they, Mac?"
Phryne is picture perfect innocence, and Jack studies them both carefully. It isn't always immediately clear whether Phryne is joking either. Phryne cracks first and breaks into her most brilliant smile. The lopsided twist of Jack's mouth is quick to follow. Mac has less and less patience for their silent exchanges now that they have set fire to their reservations, and she rolls her eyes and finishes her drink.
"Care to join us, Inspector?" She asks as she stands to refill her glass.
Jack shakes his head immediately. "I don't wish to intrude."
And he doesn't. This is plain to see. He also seems so eager to make a retreat, that the wicked aspect of Mac's nature – which is so well matched to Phryne's – cannot let it stand.
"Nonsense." Mac replies. Phryne shoots her a warning look, which she ignores. She pours another glass and holds it out to Jack, forcing him to cross the threshold and take it from her hands.
"You look tired, Jack." Phryne gives the floor beside her a playful pat. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
"There's a better chance of me staying awake if I stand." He smirks and takes his usual place at the mantle.
Mac had not set out to expand her circle of friends, but, like Phryne, Inspector Robinson has managed to make a space for himself. Unlike Phryne, it had occurred so slowly, she hadn't noticed the extent of it until they had begun grabbing pints once a week while Phryne was gallivanting about Europe.
"Your dedication to paperwork is admirable." Phryne winks.
"There certainly seems to be more of it these days, what with Melbourne's rise in civilian interference."
"Are you still hanging on to the Nicollson investigation?" Mac asks dismissively. "Really, Inspector. If it was that great a shock, perhaps you're in the wrong field."
"Miss Fisher comes as no surprise, but you, Dr. MacMillan, you're usually above such tactics."
Mac rolls her eyes. "I've disappointed you. My deepest fear has come to pass." She deadpans.
Phryne doesn't move from the floor, but she sits slightly straighter. Mac crosses her foot over the opposite thigh in a manner which is inviting, but ultimately emphasises (to anyone who cares to look. And no one ever looks) that they are both different people when they are not alone in the world. Even when the company is comprised of one as welcome as Jack. They have expanded their circle to include him, but they will always be their own island.
Jack makes his excuses once he reaches the bottom of his drink, and this time, they show mercy. Phryne's eyes track him as he leaves the room and Mac is warmed enough by the whiskey to entertain a vague, fleeting burst of sentimentality; Phryne and Jack are well suited, and it is beautiful to see beautiful friends so happy.
But she is not the type to dwell on such things. Let alone speak of them aloud.
In the blink of an eye, it seems, the whiskey is gone. Mac and Phryne hear the soft rustlings of Mr. Butler in the kitchen and realise that the sun must be close to rising. They don't do this often, though it comes to pass more often these days than in all their lives before. Before Janey. After Janey. After England. After England the second time.
They shuffle into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of hot, strong coffee. Mr. Butler rarely needs to be told what Phryne needs. Soon, Mac and Phryne are drinking their coffee in the back garden and eating excessively buttered toast. The sun warms their skin, and the dark sunglasses keeps the brightness tolerable.
Midway through her second cup of coffee, Mac is ready to return to her own home. The alcohol is out of her system, and it would be preferable to be settled in bed before the headache takes over. Phryne offers her a spare room, but she declines.
They have survived a war; they can fall asleep anywhere if they have to. But they don't have to anymore. And these are the smaller privileges they do not take for granted. Besides, if she hurries, she may not end up in her bed alone.
"I'll have Cec and Bert drive you home," Phryne says.
"That won't be necessary." A new voice, greatly amused, joins them in the garden.
"Sammy!" Phryne greets with delight. "Please, join us."
Sammy – nee Samantha, occasionally Sam, never Sammy until meeting the acquaintance of one Phryne Fisher – gives a resigned shake of her head. But ultimately, she obliges (as most do, under the command of this particular freight train). She's only known Phryne a short time, but she's as susceptible to her charm as anyone.
In seamless time, Mr. Butler arrives with a steaming plate of eggs and toast, as well as fresh coffee.
"Will you be needing anything else, Miss?"
"Darker sunglasses, perhaps?" Mac quips. But there's a softening to her mouth as it tries to smile against her wishes.
Phryne laughs. "No, Mr. Butler. Thank you."
He nods his head and retreats into the house, and Mac finally allows herself a gentle smile. "Hello, darling."
"So you haven't forgotten me then?" Sam sighs dramatically, though in clear good fun. "I was certain I would never see you again."
"I did say that I would be late." Mac reminds her.
"Yes, and I foolishly inferred 'late' to mean 'before the full rising of the sun the next day'." Samantha reaches for the sugar, and thoughtfully stirs a spoonful into her coffee. "However, I'll concede to the fact that 'late' does tend to mean something very different to you and Phryne, and any concern was of my own making."
"We're forgiven then?" Mac's soft smile is replaced with a more signature smirk.
"Phryne, naturally. She is our gracious host, after all. I'm afraid the jury is still out on you." She winks.
Mac rolls her eyes, and that's the end of that. But it is more open flirtation than Mac generally stands for, and Phryne understands that Samantha is special. A larger contributor to Mac's happiness than she has been given credit.
Phryne and Mac extend once more. Make room for this person who is not oldest and dearest, but who has become very important to both of them (in different ways) just the same.
Acting on impulse (as she does so often), Phryne discreetly glances under the table and catches Sam's foot bumping gently against Mac's calf. She is not discreet enough. When her eyes rise, they are met with a glower from Mac that is not at all disguised by the sunglasses. Samantha is very special indeed.
The low rumble of Jack's voice draws Phryne's eyes to the kitchen door. She lowers her sunglasses and winces, pushing them back up the bridge of her nose. It's just about time for her to make her way to her bed as well. When Jack finally steps into the yard, he's fully dressed and perfectly coiffed, and a small pout rests on her lips. She hates missing opportunities to see him rumpled and unguarded first thing in the morning.
Mr. Butler sets down a new breakfast plate.
"Good morning." Jack tips his hat. "Miss Florin, a pleasure as always."
"How many times must I ask you to call me Sam?"
"Sam." He corrects, with a tilt of his head and an easy half smile. "I trust your sleep was sound, in the absence of these ruffians."
"Sounder than yours, I imagine," Sam answers with a laugh.
"Yes, well, that goes without saying."
His eyes dance and a small flutter runs through Phryne's stomach, even as she schools her features into an expression of mock hurt. Maybe she isn't quite sober.
Jack asks Sam about her work as he spreads a generous helping of butter on his toast. Samantha's response is enthusiastic and drawn out between sips of her coffee. Phryne and Mac exchange rueful glances, mocking this scene of disgusting domesticity even as they participate. But when the years have been marked by death and war, perhaps a small dose of domesticity can be tolerated (on the right day, even appreciated). It's too late to escape the imminent headache, so Mac and Phryne resign themselves to more coffee and decent company. Mac doesn't possess the same compulsion as Phryne to vocalise how clever she is, but she does take pride in her intelligence. In the intelligence of her friends. In the ease of this table. She would blame the whiskey if not for the hangover. And this influx of sentimentality is how she knows that it is time to leave. She throws back the rest of her coffee and stands, tucking her hands into her pockets.
"I'm leaving. We'll be here all day at this rate."
Phryne has her knees drawn up again her chest, toes pressed into the edge of the chair. She's leaning more toward being asleep than not, and she gives Mac a careless wave. "Goodnight."
"Sleep well, Doctor. Miss Florin."
In no real hurry, they make their way to the car. Sam traces patterns over Mac's knee as she drives, and this small repetitive action relaxes her to the point she would likely have fallen asleep if not for Sam's unexpected question.
"Wherever did you two find each other? It's taken me until just now to realise you've never mentioned anything that would help me figure out when you started."
"She's an old friend," Mac mutters, face pressed against the window. Silence ensues, and Mac lifts her head. Samantha nods less-than-casually and the miscommunication dawns on Mac. "Not that sort of old friend. Not that it's any of your business."
"No! No, of course not." Sam clears her throat. Her rise in pitch as she's making an especially outrageous falsehood is surprisingly close to Phryne's.
In spite of herself, Mac smiles. "We were children. She was as irritating as she remains to this day; I didn't get a say in the matter. Still don't."
"Somehow I'm finding it difficult to imagine you being forced into a friendship. Or anything else, really."
"Alright, perhaps we deserve one another." She dances around the subject. There is so much to their history that Mac rarely considers; it's difficult to pick a spot to mark as the beginning. In any case, there are only bits and pieces which are hers and not theirs, and she doesn't make a habit of bringing to light what isn't hers to tell.
Sam tilts her head and takes her eyes off the road to briefly study Mac's face. "Or perhaps you're both very lucky," she eventually returns.
"To have each other?"
"Goodness, no. To have the Inspector and I, of course."
Mac appreciates Sam's powers of perception, and the ease with which she allows the conversation to take a new direction. She clears her throat and reaches for a compromise. "If there's ever something you really want to know, I'll answer what I can."
Sam's free hand resumes its dance over Mac's knee. "Another time, perhaps. I think for now I'm content to wait until you have something you wish to share."
It's still early, and Sam's car is the only one on the road. Mac risks taking her hand and gently kissing her fingers. Then she rests her head against the window and closes her eyes once more. She and Phryne may or may not deserve one another, but Mac can agree that they are both – all things considered – quite lucky. With this final thought, she falls asleep.