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Jack Robinson woke with a crick in his neck, a throbbing headache, and a mouth that felt full of cotton. Blinking a few times in the dim light, he gingerly rolled his shoulders, realizing as he did so he was in shirtsleeves, his coat and suit jacket draped unceremoniously on the back of the chair he occupied.
Right, he thought. The hospital.
He ran a hand over his face, feeling the day's growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin. The curtains on the small window were drawn, but he couldn't see any light coming from underneath, and figured it must still be the small hours of the morning.
Phryne Fisher lay in the single bed a foot or so away from his chair. She wore a white hospital gown, her pale skin and dark hair making her look unnaturally frail. No, he thought, it wasn't just the gown; it was that she was still, so impossibly still.
He felt a clawing at his stomach and for a nightmarish second, he wondered if she was dead. Would they have left him there, sleeping, until he woke and they could tell him? A thousand thoughts and terrors flashed through him in the instant before he saw her chest rise and fall gently; the lump that suddenly pressed his throat was harder to dispel.
He hadn't waited for an ambulance. Murdoch Foyle had lain bleeding and furious beside the body of Professor Rhodes, and Jack and Jane had arrived in the room just in time to see Phryne condemn her demon to an ignoble death at the hands of the hangman before collapsing.
Jack looked down at his arms now, the cuffs of his wrinkled shirt rolled up. She hadn't weighed anything. Not a thing. He'd caught her and lifted her to his chest without thinking, and willed her to stay warm, stay with him, even as he felt Jane's hand grab the fabric of his coat.
The exit from the bowels of the antiquities building must have taken only minutes – he remembered following Rhodes down the labyrinth of corridors hours before – but now he couldn't recall it as time at all. It was just a series of images, of sensations. The feeling of angling his body smoothly so as not to jostle her as they passed through a narrow doorway. The weight of her head flopping back over his arm as she descended deeper into the drug. Jane's frantic shouts as they rounded the last flight of stairs and heard the muted voices of students in the distance.
It might have taken an hour, it might have been only seconds. But if it were mere seconds, how would he still feel the shape of her body in his arms, against his chest? How would he have had time to say (in whispers, murmurs, prayers, screams, he couldn't say) all the things that had run through his head as he held her and willed the life to stay in her body?
You are stronger than all of them.
Please hold on.
Don't leave.
Don't leave me.
He flexed his jaw once, suddenly wondering how much had been out loud, how much Jane might have heard.
Nothing for it now. And what if she had? Would it be so terrible? To admit... to admit what? He wasn't sure he knew himself.
Jack reached forward and drew the thin cotton blanket a little further up to Phryne's chin. His hand hovered near her jaw, the backs of his knobby fingers brushing the soft skin of her cheek, lingering perhaps longer than they should. Warm. He released a breath and sat back.
Three days ago, he had been a married man. In law, only, but then, he was a man of the law. A weary sadness came over him at the memory of that day; Rosie had barely looked at him during the proceedings, as if she was trying to spare him more humiliation. It wasn't that he'd wanted to remain married; he knew that ship had sailed long ago, perhaps passing in the night the one that brought him home from France. But to have to meet her eyes, and those of everyone in the courtroom, as he offered a confession that would grant her the divorce... that was harder even than he'd imagined. He almost laughed now; he might as well have actually been unfaithful for all the shame he felt.
He hadn't told Phryne. Looking at her, even in sleep her face exquisite, he wondered if she knew. Wait. No, he didn't wonder; of course she knew. Jack had always thought himself a good detective, a perceptive man. But even his unusually sharp powers of observation were eclipsed by those of Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective. (He smiled a little, not even at the beginning having been able to bring himself to mind.) She had asked about his barrister, and he'd wondered if she'd been hoping he'd confirm it, but she had refrained from pursuing it any further when he changed the subject. He'd been grateful.
Now, he wished he'd told her. Why should she not know? After all, it would soon be common knowledge, and he'd already confessed to the state of his marriage. So why couldn't he bring himself to tell her it was final?
And why was he equally grateful she knew?
A soft throat-clearing behind him roused Jack from his thoughts, and he turned stiffly in his chair to see a silhouette in the doorway.
“Dr. Macmillan. I... she's still not awake.” Jack ran a hand roughly through his thick hair, nudging back a curl that fell over his forehead.
“No, with the amount of Foyle's cocktail in her system, I'm not surprised. She may be as stubborn as an ox, but even Phryne Fisher only has the constitution of a human woman, and not a very big one at that. She'll be alright, but only because we pumped her stomach and gave her charcoal. It was a very close thing, Jack.”
She'd never used his given name before, and it made Jack turn and meet her eyes.
He nodded, suddenly unable to speak.
“I know this is probably going to fall on deaf ears, but you can go home, you know. She'll be out of it for hours yet, and I'm not going anywhere. Dorothy Williams will be here in the morning before the milk cart I'm sure, and I'm betting your own bed would be much more comfortable than that awful chair, especially after the clock on the head you had.”
Jack gave her a tiny, lopsided smile.
“Did you say something, Doctor? I couldn't quite hear.”
Mac looked at him a moment then rolled her eyes.
“You're as bad as each other. Here then,” she said, reaching into the small cupboard at the end of the bed. “Extra blanket. They're not very warm, but they're better than nothing. There's an extra pillow in there as well, if your coat isn't up to the job.”
“Thank you”, said Jack, and turned back to the woman in the bed.
“She's going to be fine, Inspector, thanks to you.” Mac paused. “And I do, by the way. Thank you. She may be an idiot sometimes, but I'm not sure what I'd do without her.”
“Something we have in common, Doctor,” Jack said softly.
Mac turned to look at him.
Ah, she thought. Well, at least he knows, because it was certainly written all over his face when he erupted into the emergency ward earlier the previous day, Phryne limp in his arms, and the concern of much more than a casual colleague pulling his features into a mask of fear.
He was a good man, and a good officer, Mac knew. And she'd be lying if she said she hadn't noticed a peculiar and, well, unprecedented relationship developing between her oldest friend and the straight-laced, clever Inspector. She wasn't sure it was a good thing; Phryne was many things, but steady wasn't one of them.
She'd seen more men than she cared to count fall under the spell of Phryne Fisher, but looking at this particular man, she had to admit, the symptoms were very different. And never, not once in a lifetime of knowing her, had Mac ever seen Phryne with an equal. Perhaps that would make all the difference; perhaps it wouldn't change the outcome one bit. But right now, he cared for her, likely a good deal more more than he'd be willing to admit.
Mac opened the cupboard again, and wordlessly passed him the pillow.
“She'll likely be thirsty when she wakes. There's water in the jug beside you. Help yourself, too, Inspector. And try to get some rest, will you? You look like hell. I'll be back when my shift ends.”
Jack nodded, wondering if he should feel self-conscious, and finding somehow he didn't.
She could have died, only hours ago. Gone out of his life, our of his work, out of his days and nights and yes, even, if he was honest, his dreams.
An image of her, eyes heavily lined with violet and black, her gold headdress oddly fitting, came to him, and he closed his eyes to deepen it. He could smell her perfume, feel her fingers scorching the skin of his throat.
Of course he had wanted her. He'd had to push himself back into the frame of the bed until he felt bruises rising on his hip, but he hadn't been able to tear his eyes or his body away from hers. He knew, as soon as she'd said it, what she was offering, her one gaudy night; knew she would be as generous with her body as she was with her life. Knew also (and the thought made his stomach tighten even now), that it would have been, for her, one night of many; no ties, no consequences, no regrets.
For him, though, it would not.
And so he'd only nearly drowned in her eyes, and in the sorrow of lying so he could release a woman he'd once loved, and in the desire to feel this extraordinary woman sweep away his grief and move across his dry, tired body and soul like rain over the desert.
Then at the last minute, he'd asked her to step back, and she had, once again. He wondered in the moments after her hips had swayed out of the room, when he stood ruefully contemplating a bottle-brush helmet, how he could be so stupid, so proud. Because he'd turned her down not because he didn't want her; on the contrary, he wanted her desperately. But he wanted her, all of her, and he wasn't ready to give in just for one gaudy night.
“You are an ass, Jack Robinson,” he'd told himself, as he sat to unlace his shoes. “You just turned down the one thing you've been thirsting for, for the mirage of something that you will likely never taste.” But even then, a tiny voice inside him said, “maybe”. Maybe, one day mate, if you're very, very lucky. It was enough.
And then Foyle's hell had broken loose, and he ended up with his arms full of her anyway, her breath on his chest, her eyes closed against his cheek, her hand trailing on the back of his neck, and if he'd been a religious man, he'd have feared waking up the next morning for all the deals with the devil he'd made to keep her alive.
Phryne shifted slightly in the bed, bringing Jack back to her side, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
She stilled quickly, her mouth slightly open, her eyes not even fluttering under her long, dark lashes.
“Phryne,” he said softly.
“Phryne, it's Jack. You're in the hospital.”
He watched as she slept on.
“You're going to be fine, Mac – Dr. Macmillan, said.” Jack swallowed, and smoothed the bedsheets beside her arm. He felt the warmth from her skin even without touching her, and almost in slow motion, he stroked her arm until he'd caught her fingers in his large palm. He squeezed very gently, wringing surprising tears from his eyes.
“God I was scared, Phryne. So bloody scared. You'd probably hate every word of this, if you heard it, so maybe it's a good thing you can't. I don't have any idea what I'm doing. I'm just... I'm not ready to say 'never'.”
Jack's other hand came up to rub his eyes before settling around her fingers as well.
“And regardless, my solve rate has gone up these last few months, so I grudgingly admit to your usefulness in that regard; something I'm sure you would be pleased to hear. Though I was doing alright before you showed up.”
He paused.
“No. No I wasn't. Whatever I was, I don't think I'd been alright for a long time, and my god Phryne, I'm not ready to go back. So whatever this is, this... us, please come back to it. I find the alternative... rather impossible to contemplate.”
His voice broke on the last few words, and he squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in his bicep for a moment.
Fatigue suddenly threatened to crush him. With one hand, he carefully reached the pillow Mac had left at Phryne's feet and nestled it on the edge of the bed beside her hip. He found he could keep a hold of her hand as he laid his head down. His last thought as he drifted off was that he needed to wake before she did.
***
Sunlight crept under Jack's closed eyelids as he heard the squeak of trolley wheels somewhere down the hallway of the ward. The stiffness in his neck had become a vice grip, and as he flexed his shoulders slightly he dreaded raising his head to stretch. Suddenly he was aware of a weight on the back of his head.
A pillow? An ice pack? But the weight was too small to be the first, and too warm to be the second. He eased his head slightly from where it rested on the lumpy pillow at Phryne's side, the events of the previous day flooding his mind. Phryne.
Her hand was still clasped in his, their resting fingers now entwined. A leg shifted under the white blanket, and Jack forgot his aching neck and turned enough to look at the head of the bed, his head still resting on his outstretched arm.
Phryne lay back against the pillows, slightly turned to her side, her knees bent a little, so her slim body was curled towards him. Her skin seemed brighter, and her cheeks held more of their usual pink.
And she was awake.
In the split second before he started thinking about what a state he must look, and how he ought to sit back, freshen up, replace his jacket and his coat and his distance, he realized it was her hand, on his head, in his hair, and she hadn't moved it.
The moment seemed to stretch out, so that he couldn't tell, later, whether it had been one second or a hundred. He stared at her, her eyes clear and soft and blue, and felt her delicate fingers ruffle his hair, gently stroking and letting the curls untangle around them.
“You're here.” Her voice felt like warm velvet on his skin.
Unable to speak, Jack nodded.
She smiled, and they stayed just like that, still except for the bright, fluid current that flowed between them.
When a knock at the open door broke the spell, Jack sat up, wincing as he felt the pinch in his neck. He went to pull his hand away from Phryne's, but her fingers closed around his and held fast. He met her eyes, and she swallowed, a flash of uncertainty in her gaze. No, it wasn't uncertainty; it was anxiety.
Jesus, thought Jack, well why the hell not. She'd been though more in the last 48 hours than most people in their lives; she was strong, there was no question, but as he had so intimately seen, she was also very much human.
He squeezed her fingers and sat up, pulling his chair around so he could sit next to her. His stomach flipped when she squeezed back.
Mac strode in, and to her great credit, gave no indication that what she was seeing was anything other than perfectly normal (Jack wished he could thank her, but that was as likely to happen as Mac reaching up to kiss Jack full on the mouth).
She gave Phryne a quick once over, and told her Dot and the cabbies were on their way to bring her home. Phryne was under strict instructions to rest for 24 hours and drink plenty of fluids, none of them alcoholic, a prescription the woman herself found almost more egregious than forced rest. (“Well what exactly am I TO drink then, Mac?”)
Jack cleared his throat when Mac left the room, and shifted so he could look at Phryne.
“You'll be glad to be rid of me,” she said with a small smile. “What a horrible night you must have spent, Jack. I had this luxurious bed, and you were tangled in a heap.”
They both laughed a little.
“Can you go home and get some rest?” Her hand came to lay on the bare skin of his forearm, and Jack found he had a moment's trouble finding his voice.
“Ah, not today. I'll make it home to freshen up and change,” he said with an apologetic glance down at his dishevelled state, “but then I need to get back to the station. The report on... on the case needs to be prepared, and I expect I'll need to supervise as evidence is gathered back at the university.”
She nodded, looking down at her lap. She spoke without raising her head.
“I'm having a party, tomorrow.” A small laugh escaped her, and she gave her head a little shake.
“Summer Solstice, after all. It was supposed to be bigger, before...” Jack's hand came up to cover hers on his arm. “Dot will call most of the guests to cancel. All but a few – close – friends. Dot and Hugh, and Mac.... Will you come, Jack?”
She met his eyes.
“I know it's a lot to ask, after... after everything.” He searched her eyes and thought he saw the whole meaning of everything held there.
So she did know, after all.
“I wouldn't be anywhere else.”
She smiled, a radiant, gentle, grateful smile, and he almost forgot where they were, and why.
Just then, Dorothy Williams bustled in, bringing with her the normalcy of daylight and propriety.
Jack rose, patted his pockets and donned his jacket and coat. He looked around for his hat, but didn't see it. Pushing the chair back to its usual place away from the bed, he wondered briefly what had become of the police motor car after he had lurched to a stop outside the hospital.
When he turned to say goodbye, Dot was pulling some clothes out of a carpetbag for Phryne and laying them on the bed. Something white and silky, something black and embroidered; back to their uniforms for both, it seemed.
Jack stood for a moment by the door, lost for what to say.
“Dot, would you be a dear and ask the duty nurse for some fresh water? I'm absolutely parched, and that jug has been sitting for hours.”
“Of course, Miss!” Dot flashed a quick smile, and whisked past Jack on her way out the door. Jack couldn't suppress a swell of admiration at Phryne's deftness.
“Thank you, Jack.”
“I'd say, 'anytime', but I'd just as soon not repeat last night.” Jack tilted his head, and she laughed at the softness of his smile.
“Shadows banished after all,” she said. “Until tomorrow night, Inspector?”
He straightened away from the door frame, meeting her eyes as his face settled into its familiar mask of angles and shadows.
“I look forward to it.”