Chapter Text
Jack woke up feeling like shit, for lack of better words. It was his fourth day at Wardlow, and he'd made the mistake of claiming to be completely fine yesterday, despite a persistant temperature and intolerance to cold. We all know it's never good to tempt the universe like that. His throat was killing him, burning whenever he swallowed. He felt shivery and cold, even under his pile of blankets, and he started coughing when he tried to sit up. His head hurt and when he moved too fast he felt dizzy. Part of him was slightly relieved. He'd been planning on going home today, and he was grateful for an excuse to stay just a little longer. Phryne's house provided luxuries like expensive soap and huge bathtubs filled with bubbles, glorious food, a fire always burning in the fireplace, a never-ending supply of books, the comfiest mattress he'd ever slept on. But those weren't the luxuries he would mourn losing. The things he would miss the most were the hours spent with Phryne in her parlour, playing draughts and talking about everything and nothing, or listening to the radio together.
Jack had fallen in love with the adventurous, fearless Phryne Fisher - a fact he wasn't afraid to admit, if only to himself - but he also was delighted that Phryne had a domestic side, and he was allowed to see it. Too often, in Jack's opinion, the words "domestic" and "submissive" got confused by the majority of society. Phryne could never be submissive, but she could have a quiet day at home, when she needed it. She still couldn't walk on her ankle, but Mac had offered her a pair of crutches from the hospital, which granted her some independence. Jack found that as much as he enjoyed the stake outs and the police chases and their investigations, Phryne was equally as captivating at home.
Jack enjoyed the domesticity, the way he seemed at home with her. Some of it reminded of the very early days of his marriage to Rosie, like the way Phryne asked him what was in his paper, or the way she scolded him for trying to work when he was sick. Some of it was intimacy and familiarity he'd never experienced with his wife, like listening to the radio shows in the afternoon, or playing music on the gramophone when they got bored, or laughing until they cried about one of Phryne's stories from finishing school. Jack had never realised the antics posh fourteen-year-old girls got up to. The loud, interesting dinner table conversation certainly was unfamiliar. Hugh usually came around for dinner, which Jack hadn't realised, but it made sense. Hugh would talk about news from the station, and Dot would share news about her family. Mr. Butler never seemed to run out of stories about his days in the AIF, and Jane was full of hilarious stories from her school. Jack and Phryne still shared their nightcap after dinner.
Jack adored Phryne's stories. Her life had never been boring, it seemed. He told her about his life, too. Not just the funny stories, but the serious ones, too. The war, the friends he'd lost and the ones he'd gained, the break down of his marriage, his divorce. Phryne listened, and she understood. In turn, she shared snippets of her own history. Bits were hard to listen to, like tales of six-year-old Phryne being beaten and locked in a cupboard, or what she suffered at the hands of Rene Dubois. Jack had told her, truthfully, that he wished he could go back and punch everyone who ever treated her with cruelty.
There were other acts of intimacy. Jack was often shocked at how natural it all seemed. Phryne resting her head on his shoulder while they talked, Phryne jokingly poking his leg with her good foot under the table at dinner, Phryne throwing a pillow at his head when he mocked her driving, Phryne lounging on the chaise lounge in an ugly knitted jumper and silk pyjama bottoms, wrapped in blankets, makeup-free. She loaned him books from her library that she thought he'd enjoy, including several illegal volumes of explicit novels, just to tease him. She'd smirk and smile seductively, which affected Jack more than he liked to admit, and she'd ask him to read chapters to her aloud. He always rolled his eyes and refused, placing the books on the coffee table, but he'd stayed up late reading them these past few nights, and often even after he'd put down the books, their content kept him awake.
Phryne didn't just tell stories. They discussed everything; news, Ancient history, philosophy, modern discoveries in medicine, religion, politics, literature, art, music, everything. Phryne was educated, as was he, and they either agreed with each other so much it felt silly, or disagreed and bantered happily. Jack was convinced he could spend forever with just Phryne, and he'd never be bored.
So, long story short, he was glad he didn't have to leave today. He got up, and went into the en suite bathroom of his guest bedroom. He washed his face. He looked like shit, too. His nose and cheeks were slightly red, his hair was messy, and there were shadows under his eyes. He was paler than usual. He groaned and splashed some more water on his skin, before heading back to bed. He'd just crawled under the doona when there was a familiar clicking noise, approaching his door. He laughed to himself. Phryne was usually silent, good at sneaking up on people, but bulky wooden crutches made that hard.
Sure enough, thirty seconds later there was a knock on his door. He hadn't even responded when it swung open. Phryne stood there, two dressing gowns wrapped over her pyjamas, leaning on her crutches. Her nose was pink, her skin was pale, and she looked sick. When she spoke, her voice was raspy. "I'm sick."
"I think the Yarra and it's icy temperatures finally caught up with us," agreed Jack from under his pile of blankets. "I feel terrible." His voice was hoarse, too, and it hurt to talk.
"You look terrible, too," said Phryne, and she began hobbling towards his bed. "Well, terrible for you," she amended, as she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. "Which is still better than most people look in their lifetimes. Jesus, Jack, you've got a fever."
Jack nodded, shivering slightly. He almost missed Phryne's comment about him looking nice, but he didn't. He smiled involuntarily, and she smiled back, before peeling back the covers and awkwardly sitting on Jack's bed, before swinging her legs onto it. "What are you doing?" Jack asked, alarmed, as Phryne rested her crutches against a wall and fixed the blankets.
"Well, we're both sick, and we should both be in bed. But I want company. This is a solution, is it not?"
"Well, yes, but - "
"Jack," chided Phryne. "I'm happy to go back to my bedroom, then you can be lonely and bored in here, would you prefer that?" She didn't wait for him to answer, snuggling into his blankets, slowly rolling onto her side, wincing when she bumped her ankle. Jack gave in. Phryne in his bed was far from unpleasant. Without her expensive French perfume, she just smelled like Phryne, and her body made his bed warmer. Also, he did love her company. She reached out and took his hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world, before her eyes slid past him to his bedside table. Her face lit up, and Jack groaned internally, knowing immediately what had caused her reaction. "Lady Chatterly's Lover, Jack!" Phryne exclaimed, her ill health clearly not impacting her ability to tease him. "You've been reading, too, if that book mark is any indication! Tell me, what's your favourite part?"
"No," said Jack, unable to think of another, wittier response.
"Jack," whined Phryne. "I'm sick and you won't even indulge me! Please." She poked his chest, and he laughed. She shifted closer to him.
"Maybe another time, Phryne," Jack muttered. He didn't want Phryne trying to see how far this could go before he shut it down.
"Fine," Phryne huffed. She settled down beside him, letting her arm fall over his chest. Jack smiled down at her. He pushed the thought that all this would end in a couple of days from his mind, focusing on the here and now. How many men got to spend this long with Phryne, without any... less inappropriate things happening? Probably not very many. In fact, he might be the first, and possibly the only one. The thought made him smile wider, even though he knew it was foolish to want to be special amongst Phryne's parade of men. He let his arm wrap around her shoulder, too.
He was disappointed when Dot came in with honey toast and hot tea to sooth their sore throats, but at least it didn't hurt now. Once the makeshift breakfast was finished, they settled back down. Phryne was tired, and she didn't seem to want to talk. She seemed content with curling up against Jack's side and closing her eyes. Jack didn't disapprove of this plan either. He wondered how he ended up here, sharing a bed with Phryne, having everything he wanted and at the same time, nothing he wanted.
"You know, Jack," said Phryne, slightly sleepily. "I'd never complain about Wardlow, I'm not ungrateful enough for that, but I think that when you go home, it will always feel as if something is missing, after this. It's strange, it feels like you belong here. Even stranger, I'm not sure I'd object if you decided to stay forever."
"I'm not sure I'd mind, either," said Jack lightly, trying to act like that comment didn't phase him, didn't make his heart beat faster and his smile grow.
Phryne smiled and snuggled into him more, until her body was almost pressed against his side. She'd left Jack with muddled thoughts to fall asleep with, of hope and love and a bit of fear, but he was happy.
In each other's arms, they both were happy.