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Jack woke first, as he always did.
Milky winter sunlight filtered in through the curtains. The room was cold, but the bed was warm, and he didn't feel particularly compelled to emerge from the nest of blankets he and Phryne had built for themselves. Not for a few minutes, anyway. He curled his body around Phryne and threaded his fingers through her hair. He listened to the congested whistle of her breathing and sat up, frowning. She was paler even than usual, too, and the tip of her nose was bright pink, as though she’d been up in the night needing to tend to it. He felt a quick, uncomfortable pang of guilt for having slept through it.
"You're sick," Jack murmured, and traced the line of Phryne's jaw.
She stirred at the faint touch, which meant she wasn't sleeping deeply. She sniffed heavily and groaned, then pulled the blankets tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes, puffy from sleep--and, Jack supposed, illness--blinked slowly open.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Jack whispered. "You've caught an awful cold, poor love. Go back to sleep for a while."
Phryne mumbled something incoherent and disappeared completely beneath the bedclothes. Jack pressed a kiss to her overheated temple and slipped out of bed. He was due at the station soon enough, but he'd come back midday to check on her, he decided. Dot would keep an eye on her in the meantime. He'd leave her alone to get the rest she clearly needed, and this, as he should've well known, was on his part a grave tactical error.
Phryne glowered, sunk into the fur collar of her coat like some eldritch terror preparing to emerge from a centuries long slumber. She couldn’t stop falling into coughing fits so wracking her eyes watered, and she was personally offended by her own endless, repellent sniffling and noseblowing. Hugh had already attempted to give her a fresh handkerchief three times, and each offer was accompanied by increasingly less subtle suggestions that, perhaps, she might consider leaving the station so she could rest.
“You may as well go home,” Jack said after Hugh's fourth handkerchief offer had gone unaccepted, exasperated and fond in turns. “You look dreadful, you know. Obstinate woman.”
Phryne stuck out her tongue.
“You’re holding up important constabulary business,” Jack said, “because I’m not leaving while you’re still here. You and that nasty cold of yours will only follow along behind me.”
“It’s hayfever,” Phryne maintained, sneezing violently.
“Hayfever?” Jack repeated, incredulous. “You don’t have hayfever. Not to mention it’s the middle of winter. And,” he continued, tossing his pen onto his desk with great finality, “you’re shivering.”
Phryne scowled. “It’s cold in here,” she said, cuddling further into her coat. “There’s a draft.”
She leaned across the desk for one of Jack’s file folders, but he pulled it from her reach before she could grab it. She made an offended little noise and crossed her arms, pouting.
Jack’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. “Miss Fisher,” Jack said, patience exhausted, “the furnace is running at its maximum capacity. It’s a godforsaken Turkish bath. If it gets any warmer Collins is going to start getting indecent.”
“I am fine,” Phryne said, and then coughed and coughed until she had to cover her mouth with her handkerchief.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?” he prompted.
“Fine,” Phryne said, sounding miserable. “I’ll go home.”
“That’s the way,” Jack said warmly. He helped her up from the chair. “Straight back to bed where you belong. I’ll even call ahead so Miss Williams knows to start cooking soup for later.”
“Chicken noodle?” Phryne sniffled, staring at Jack with rheumy, bleary eyes. “And toast?” Another sneeze. “Without the crusts?”
“Whatever you want,” Jack promised, nearly pushing Phryne out the door. “Now, off you go.”
Phryne’s nose was red and raw and her head was light and swollen as a hot air balloon. Her entire body ached, down to the roots of her hair. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so poorly. When she arrived home she changed into fresh pyjamas and crawled into bed, shivering, and had confusing, not wholly unwelcome dreams about taking tea with a handsome, charming centaur that looked remarkably like Jack.
She woke later to a hand pressed to her damp, feverish brow. She batted it away with all the force and verve of a newborn kitten. “I have a gun,” she informed the hand’s owner, and the rumbling laugh that answered her was one she knew.
"I'm not sure you've got the strength to lift it at the moment, but you're more than welcome to try."
She could practically hear her eyes creak as they slowly opened. Jack was standing above her bed, and Phryne was certain she must still be dreaming—it couldn’t be later than midafternoon, and Jack was surely still at the station—but it was such a lovely dream that she didn’t really mind.
“Hello, you,” she said to the Jack apparition. “I think I may be dying.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Jack said gravely. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you hadn’t plotted your escape and absconded through the window.”
Phryne sniffed. “I did consider it,” she said. She reached out and touched Jack’s jaw. “Are you really here?” Her voice was small, shy.
“I am,” Jack confirmed. He sat down and smoothed her blankets. “And I believe Miss Williams is preparing a tea tray for you as we speak. She picked up those ginger biscuits you're fond of. Thought they might lift your spirits some.”
“I won’t be able to taste anything,” Phryne despaired. She blew her nose loudly but ineffectually. “I can’t breathe.” The words were sweetly, sadly surprised, as though she was caught off guard by her own wretchedness.
Jack winced. “You sound like it,” he said sympathetically. “Poor Phryne.”
“Poor me,” Phryne said. She sighed mournfully and rolled closer to where Jack sat on the edge of her mattress. “I’m going to feel like this for the rest of my life.”
Jack took her hand in his and squeezed it. “I’m going to see to bringing you that tea tray,” he said, “and then you’re going to get some more sleep. Detective Inspector’s orders,” he said before she could fight him on it. “Sometimes when a person is ill it’s their body’s way of telling them to slow down. Does that sound at all familiar?” His mouth was serious but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Not in the slightest,” Phryne said, resisting her own answering smile.
Another long nap did in fact follow Phryne’s tea, and when she woke again it was pouring rain. It was dark in her room; the curtains were drawn. But there was pale light seeping in from under her bedroom door. Someone had removed her tea tray and left a glass of water in its place. She felt anxious and displaced; how much time had passed? And where was everyone else?
Phryne stood, bracing a hand against her bedside table as she waited out a wave of dizziness. Her sinuses throbbed insistently. She took a blanket from her bed and wrapped it around her shivering body. She knew it was a decidedly undignified thing to do, but at the moment dignity was of the least of her concerns.
Sniffling, Phryne slowly made her way down the stairs and to the kitchen, where she could hear the gentle rise and fall of familiar voices. Jack, Hugh, and Jane were all seated around the table with mugs of coffee or tea. Dot was at the stove, stirring a merrily bubbling pot. They were all chatting and laughing, and they didn’t even notice she was there until she bent forward with an enormous sneeze.
“Oh dear, Miss Phryne, you sound awful,” Dot said, which was the first thing Phryne heard after her ears stopped ringing, followed by a medley of other people expressing similar sentiments.
Several pairs of hands--Jack's, she could tell, were at the middle of her back--led her over to the parlor sofa and immediately wrapped the blanket more securely around her. Phryne peered up at Jack blurrily. “There are cases to solve,” she informed him, sniffling, the words croaky and solemn.
He knelt on the floor. “Yes,” he said. “There always are.”
“Robberies,” Phryne said, “and shoot-outs. And murders. Murders, Jack. Awful ones, probably. With terribly creative weapons. Happening under our very noses. Right now, even.”
“Mmm,” Jack agreed. “No rest for the wicked.”
Phryne sniffled again, defeated. “But I don’t feel well,” she said, admitting it aloud at last.
Jack thumbed a loose, sweaty tendril of dark hair back from the elegant sweep of Phryne’s cheekbone. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry for it.”
She turned into his hand. His palm was warm and slightly calloused. “It can wait, Phryne,” Jack murmured. “All of it can wait. I promise.”
The distance between them was all at once unbearable, and Phryne extended a hand, inviting Jack to join her on the sofa.
The corners of his mouth twitched. "Do you require another pillow?" he asked.
"Obviously," Phryne answered, and tugged on his arm.
He settled himself next to her, and Phryne promptly moved so her head was cradled in his lap. He lay his wrist against her forehead, then his own, and frowned. "You're burning up," he said. "I wonder if you shouldn't take some medicine."
Phryne clutched her arms around his waist and held him in place. "Don't you dare move," she commanded as fiercely as she could manage through a badly stuffy nose. She yawned. "Have to let the fever do its work. S'what Mac would say."
"I do hate seeing you uncomfortable," Jack said, frowning, but he knew she was right.
Phryne fell silent, comforted by the noises of the people she loved moving through the small rituals of their everyday lives. She was silent for so long that Jack mistook it for sleep; her snuffling breaths were deep and even, warming a spot on his middle. Her long lashes rested like butterflies on the tops of her cheeks. Jack reached out and ran a finger down her philtrum. He traced the tender pink seashell whorl of her ear.
“Jack,” Phryne said suddenly, and he drew back his hand.
“Phryne?” he said.
A thick sniffle. A vigorous sneeze. “Is there any soup left?” she asked in the perfect pathetic register. She blinked at him angelically.
“I’m certain there is,” Jack answered.
“Will you get me some?” Phryne asked. She stuck out her lower lip. “Please?”
Jack exhaled a soft laugh. “Well,” he said, “how could I ever say no to that?”