Chapter Text
“Jack!”
Phryne opened the front door with her usual flair, enthusiasm and almost addictive excitement. However, her charming smile faltered the moment she spotted the Inspector, standing on her covered porch. She flinched as a flash of light briefly and quite suddenly illuminated the pitch black night sky, the lightning bisecting the darkness before a loud thunderclap roared to life almost immediately after, shaking the leaves on the trees. The storm was close, then.
Though it had been pouring all day, it seemed the worst of the storm was now upon them. Jack had been unusually late for their celebratory nightcap (or nightcaps, as was often the case) but she hadn’t thought anything of it. He was a grown man, and would always be welcome in her home, regardless of the time.
He was probably just wrapping up the paperwork on their latest solved case - rounding up a gang of rhinoceros horn smugglers. Phryne had found this case to be particularly amusing, especially considering where they’d stashed some of the contraband. Jack would surely deny it to his dying day, but she was positive a small smile had been lurking near the corner of his mouth upon this piquant discovery.
Right now, Jack wasn't exactly smiling. He was, however, positively dripping from his ruined fedora down to his soaked brown leather shoes.
He looked like a drowned rat, a wet dog… a drenched, handsome man, standing on her doorstep, in dire need of someone to help warm him up, surely?
“Miss Fisher,” he greeted in that deep voice of his that had taken on a raspy edge.
She loved the way he said her name, however formal he would insist on addressing her. It was spoken as though it were both an admonishment for some kind of trouble she'd gotten the two of them into, and a caress across her sensitive skin. An inquiry, an unquenched curiosity in those two words that would always make her pause, would raise pleasurable goosebumps all over her body.
Now that she took a closer look at him, it appeared he was rather out of breath. There was a smile in his eyes, a twinkle in those infinite pools of blue.
“I hope I’m not too late?”
She smiled back at him.
“You know the answer to that question, Jack,” she rebutted kindly before stepping aside to allow him entry into her home. “Now, come inside - don’t give me that look, Jack Robinson - you’ll catch your death of cold, standing out there.”
She missed his amused smirk as she all but dragged him into the house.
***
Closing the front door behind him with a soft click, Phryne realised this was probably the first time that she was alone in the house with Jack. Unbeknownst to him, Jane was on the continent for her Grand tour; she’d left shortly after the Christmas in July celebration. Dot was visiting her mother and Mr. Butler… well, Mr. Butler was doing whatever it was butlers did on their night off. She’d thought it prudent not to ask but hoped he was somewhere safe. This rainstorm did not look as though it was going to let up any time soon.
Now, it wasn't as if she had arranged for the house to be empty, but she had to admit, it was convenient.
When Jack had come to her that night, after Fletcher’s arrest, and told her in not so many words that he planned on doing the ignoble thing indeed, right there at the foot of her stairs, it had piqued her interest greatly. She wanted to know what being ignoble entailed (though she had a pretty good idea). Preferably sooner than later, as patience wasn’t exactly her strong suit. Jack, on the other hand, was the veritable embodiment of patience - as proven to her again when he had resisted her invitation at the chalet. It was beginning to grate on her nerves, not to mention her libido.
Still, he would be worth the wait, her Jack.
She was certain he would come up with a way to compel her kisses that did not involve parasitic greenery. After all, he loved unravelling a bit of mystery as much as she did.
Jack coughed awkwardly, and she realised she’d been staring none too subtly. He’d doffed his wet hat and held it in front of his body as he looked at her, his shoulders slightly slumped. His pomaded hair was still dry and shiny, though probably damp to the touch, and she longed to reach out and confirm that suspicion for herself.
Only then did she notice that his coat was dripping onto the tiled floor. She presumed he had not moved from the spot where he was standing so he wouldn’t drip all down her hallway.
It was just like him, dear man, to consider her staff.
“Did you walk here, Jack?” she inquired amusedly as she approached him to help him shrug out of his wet overcoat, which was now almost the colour of anthracite, rather than its customary slate grey with just a hint of blue.
“I did, though not by choice. My car broke down about halfway on my way from the Station,” he rumbled with his back turned to her, and she took a moment to appreciate the broad definition of his shoulders as they managed to divest him of his overcoat. She decided that it was a damned shame - nay, almost a sin - that he wore a suit jacket all the time.
A blue suit jacket that was decidedly wet through and through, and was clinging to his frame rather faithfully. His blue suit had always been her favourite, and it certainly was now, for very different reasons. She regretfully had to tear her eyes away from the curve of his arse so she could hang his wet coat on the peg. She spread it out the best way she could, and hoped that it would dry sufficiently. She thought it would be salvageable, but perhaps she would ask Mr. Butler if he could work his magic on it.
She hung up Jack’s wet hat beside his coat - giving it a loving stroke as she recalled the look in his eyes when she'd placed it on his head for the first time - and turned around to address him.
“That sounds rather unfortunate, however, I’m not surprised. Honestly, Jack, I keep telling you that--”
“Miss Fisher, as I have told you before; I don’t think the police force could afford to purchase Hispano-Suiza’s for all of their men.”
“Well, no,” she agreed with a tilt of her head, feigning annoyance at his cheeky attitude, all the while pursing her lips to stop herself from smiling. “Not for all of them. Only the best of men should get one, don’t you think?” she asked him as she gave into temptation by placing her hand on his lapel, stroking the wet material between her forefinger and thumb, finding the friction strangely stimulating. She stepped closer and could feel, rather than hear, his sharp intake of breath at her close proximity.
“I suppose that would depend on what one might define as ‘the best of men’, Miss Fisher,” he stated, his chin close to his chest as he observed the tiny movements of her fingers. She nodded in silent agreement when he raised hooded eyes to meet her cerulean ones. His hands were restless, she noted, hanging next to his body, unsure of where they should go. He was no doubt considering what was appropriate.
She’d never cared much for propriety, and slipped both hands under his lapels, feeling the warmth of his skin, which was a sharp contrast to the wet layers of clothing that were still clinging to him.
She would have to remedy that. As soon as possible.
The light cream-coloured, semi-transparent fabric of her blouse brushed against his waistcoat as she leaned in even closer. She took in the small droplets of water that still clung to the skin of his face, wondering if he would be particularly offended if she were to lick them off, one by one. A drop near the sharp line of his cheekbone was particularly enthralling.
“Well, the best of men would be polite,” she started, toying with the top button of his waistcoat.
His breathing was laboured, as if he'd run all the way to Wardlow. “Honourable, though… not too honourable,” she joked, giving his waistcoat a soft tug. His hard chest barely brushed her soft breasts causing him to swallow almost audibly.
“He would have a good sense of humour. And a healthy appetite,” she added for good measure, meeting his eyes again as the fingers of her right hand walked a path up his buttoned shirt towards the knot of his tie. She had expected an amused look, but what she found was a gaze that was so heated, something started to stir in her gut. It dropped between her thighs where a steady pulse began. Her mouth went dry as she finished her enumeration, all of a sudden feeling quite breathless.
“And he would always do the right thing.”
“The noble thing?” he asked in a hoarse, low voice that sent a shiver through her body, croaking when he spoke. There was a tension in his jaw that belied his fears when she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer until she could feel her nipples pebble. Not from the cold, but from being this close to him.
“Exactly,” she breathed, her mouth now but a hair's breadth away from his, his philtrum lined up at the perfect place for her to lavish with her hot tongue, and yet… she held back. This time, there was no Aunt Prudence to interrupt them. Looking at him as he stood there in her hallway, his face only partially illuminated by the soft glow of the lamplight, his cheekbones casting harsh shadows… he looked like he already belonged here. Here, with her. As though he’d always been here. Suddenly, she didn't want him to ever leave, which was a very silly notion. She wasn't a kept woman, and she certainly did not intend to ever cage another human being (unless they were criminals). Wanting to keep him here… it was ridiculous, selfish, stupid and dear God if you don’t kiss me now, Jack Robinson, I swear I’ll--
Jack suddenly cleared his throat and shifted his weight before stepping back.
She felt incredibly bereft - not to mention cold, paradoxically with him being the one who had to be cold and soaked to the bone - but hoped it didn’t show on her face. Had she pushed him too far already?
“I was wondering if I could use your telephone, Miss Fisher. I’d like to call a mechanic.”
Ah. She supposed that made sense. She felt slightly miffed at his hasty retreat, but waved her hand in the general direction of the telephone all the same, granting him permission.
“Not at this hour, surely? Not all of us burn the midnight oil, Jack,” she teased, a rather weak attempt at re-establishing her equilibrium.
“An old friend of mine runs a shop downtown,” he said, bending down slightly to dial the number.
She noted his wet trousers were sticking to his legs as well, and dear God... his well-defined thighs were doing absolutely nothing to dampen her near-constant desire for the man.
“An old friend, you say?”
His brow furrowed in confusion at the emphasis of her words. As he looked up to answer her, the small wrinkle that appeared between his eyebrows was suddenly so familiar and comforting, it tugged at her heartstrings.
“Yes. His name is Mark Anderson. We were school chums.”
“Ah… I see.”
She thought it best not to mention whom she considered to be among her ‘old friends.'
***
After three futile attempts to ring the mechanic at his home, Jack concluded that the line was most likely dead. It was hardly a surprise to either of them; the storm was still raging outside, and chances were, any number of lines could have been downed. They were fortunate enough to still have power, but that was about it.
Dejectedly, he placed the handset on the cradle, then tried to put his hands inside his trouser pockets, as was his custom. Phryne noticed the slight look of disgust that briefly passed over his face when he realised his trousers were soaked. He shrugged slightly, as though shuffling the wet layers of clothing would somehow warm them up.
“No luck then, Inspector?” she asked him from where she sat on the lower steps of the staircase.
“No.” He sounded upset. “But maybe I could go back out, see if I can get the car going. I think it’s clearing up,” he grumbled as he walked towards the front door to look out of the window.
The words had barely left his mouth when lightning illuminated the hallway, the thunder roaring back to life outside. As his back tensed infinitesimally, she had to resist rolling her eyes at his stubbornness.
“Jack, don’t be ridiculous.” she admonished as she jumped up, approaching him. “Did you lock the car?”
“I shall take that to be a rhetorical question, Miss Fisher.”
“Jack?” A tentative hand reached out to touch his damp shoulder and to her great relief, he allowed it. She’d always hated it when he would shut her out. He was shivering, somehow she doubted it was because of the same reasons she’d experienced goosebumps earlier. He had to be positively freezing. Stubborn man.
And were his teeth chattering?
She gently tugged on his shoulder and he turned around to face her, worry etched into the lines on his face.
“You can’t seriously want to go back out into that storm, Jack?” she protested, and he seemed to relax, if only a little. “I’ll call Cec and Bert in the morning. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind taking a look at the car for you.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to think better of it and closed it again. Obviously he wasn't comfortable with the thought of ‘those two red raggers’ going over his police-issued motorcar, but at the very least, he knew better than to turn down her offer.
Or perhaps, was it because she had phrased it in such a way that it implied he might still be here come morning?
She smirked inwardly. Well then.
To be fair, he couldn’t go anywhere at the present moment, especially in his current condition and the weather being what it was.
“Or you can call your ‘old friend.’ Whatever… tickles your fancy, Inspector,” she flashed him a brief smile, relieved to find his eyes conveying amusement at her obvious double entendre. “For now, however, you’re safe, and most importantly; out of the storm. Your car will still be there in the morning.” She couldn’t know this for certain, but she doubted anyone would be foolish enough to steal a police car.
“Besides, I have a nice, warm fire burning for you which I’m sure would be much more comfortable, and you haven’t even had your nightcap yet,” she reminded him while straightening his tie, which was rather futile at this point. It was a shame, really. She had grown rather fond of this particular blue tie.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, and drew her focus immediately to the movement of his throat, the enticing hollow of his neck, his strong jawline…
“Right you are,” he agreed. “After you, Miss Fisher.”
As he mutely followed her into her parlour, he somehow still reminded her of a wet, obedient dog.
She didn't like it at all.