Chapter Text
There’s just no bloody way.
None.
Jack has been telling himself that at least a hundred times in the last hour - which is roughly as many times as he usually repeats the mantra that pleasuring himself while thinking about her is a Bad Idea and will one day get him into Serious Trouble. So it’s a lot.
Except, as he stands there in his shower, or lays there in his bed, or sits there in his office (It just happened once, honestly. Okay, twice, leave him alone, some of her dresses are very skimpy and you’d think she’d be able to afford more fabric than that) it’s very difficult to convince himself that Serious Trouble would be in any way bad at all. In fact it can sound downright appealing if he imagines her looking at him in that way she sometimes does as she says it. So probably telling himself this isn’t happening is as pointless as telling himself he should be thinking about something other than the curl of her lips or the outline of her hips or the sound of her voice when she says his name.
Which is pretty damn pointless, really.
So obviously this is happening.
His packing is erratic at best. At worst it looks like he robbed a bank and needs to get out of town in a hurry.
Although, if bank robbers were this scattered, they’d probably be a lot easier to catch, if he’s honest with himself. Which is not a thing he intends to be very much for the next twentyfour hours or so.
Nothing good can possibly come of that.
Into his bag goes a third tie, spare braces, a shirt he hasn’t worn in over a year because the collar has somehow gone lopsided. A pair of socks (woolen, not at all appropriate for the season) land on his bed next to the case and he picks them up to pack them properly, then realises exactly how much he won’t need them and throws them in the general direction of the open dresser drawer he just got them out of.
They land on the floor with a muted thud, and he stands for a moment watching them, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Then he takes a deep breath, pretending he’s not doing it to steady himself, and picks them up and puts them back in the drawer, laying them neatly next to the other pairs of woolen socks he won’t need.
He feels utterly ridiculous. There’s absolutely no reason why he should be this jittery.
There’s a very real chance he could be dead by this time tomorrow, of course, which seems like a perfectly reasonable explanation for his nervousness, but the truth is (oh, for Christ’s sake, can he not just leave the bloody truth alone for a day?!) it’s more the fact that he might not die that has him so on edge.
Because if he won’t be dying, just what does he think that he'll be doing?
He swallows and goes to pick out another undershirt. On his way, he passes the small box that holds his cufflinks, and for reasons he couldn’t explain if he tried, he picks up a spare pair and packs those as well.
Temporary insanity. That will be his defence. Yes. He has gone mad, taken leave of his senses.
No-one who saw his bedroom right now would doubt it.
He hears the sound of a car pulling up outside his house, the engine roaring unnecessarily loudly. Has it always done that, or does it just feel louder because he’s worried his neighbours might hear and think… Well, whatever the hell they might think, which isn’t likely to be anything particularly sordid. That’s just him. Resigning himself to his fate, he pushes down on his random collection of belongings in order to close the bag, and then he makes his way through the house, reaching the front door and opening it just in time to see Phryne Fisher with her hand poised to knock, frozen mid-movement.
“You’re all ready to go,” she says, staring at him with eyes that are wide and surprised, her hand falling to her side. “I was sure I’d have to forcibly drag you out of there.”
She cranes her neck, trying to look into his home, and he pulls the door almost shut behind him, one hand gripping the handle tightly, just in case she tries to push her way in. “By all means then, Miss Fisher,” he says drily, taking half a step backwards as if he’s preparing to go back inside.
She grabs his arm, almost making him drop his bag (How is it so heavy? What exactly did he put in there? Bricks?). “As much fun as that sounds this is rather time sensitive, so some other night.”
To his ears she manages to sound both business-like and as if “some other night” somehow involves unpacking him.
And it’s absolutely interpretations like this one that are why he’ll one day be in that Serious Trouble.
Still not letting go of him, she turns and heads back to her car, all but dragging him along with her, only releasing him to get to the other side of the car.
He drops his bag behind the passenger seat and then looks at her over the roof of the Hispano. “Y’know, it might be better if I drive,” he suggests innocently. “Very old-fashioned out there, people might not take kindly to a female driver.”
She smirks. “Nice try, Inspector. Now get in the car.”
He sighs and gets in, exuding annoyed resignation. (Which is a much better thing to be exuding than nervous with a side of ‘haven’t gotten laid since John Allan was Premier’ so he does what he can to lay it on thick.) “Just respect the speed limit, please, Miss Fisher.”
“What would be the fun in that, Jack?” she asks, looking at him sideways as she starts the car with a roar and accelerates to a speed that is well beyond what’s permitted.
“You won’t be having much fun in gaol, and if you’re caught driving like this you will be arrested,” he points out. She wouldn’t, of course, and they both know it.
“Not when I’m driving around with a detective inspector as a passenger, surely,” she says jokingly.
“Oh, they’d just arrest me too,” he tells her.
“Well, in that case,” she says, her foot pushing the throttle down even further as she takes a corner at breakneck speed. “I’m sure we could have some fun in that cell together.”
He grabs the dashboard with one hand, more for dramatic effect than because he’s particularly worried for his safety. “We won’t be having any fun at all if we’re dead,” he mutters.
She laughs but bizarrely it seems to work, because she actually slows down. He only hopes she didn’t take that as a promise of fun to be had. Or perhaps he hopes she did, he’s not entirely sure.
Serious Trouble, Robinson. This is how you get there.
“You do realise this plan is completely mad and there’s no way it won’t end terribly?” he asks after a few minutes. He has only the vaguest idea what her plan even is, but he’s fairly certain it will turn out to be something needlessly risky.
“Yes, you made your opinion quite clear on the telephone,” she says flatly. “But the thing is, Jack.” She pauses and he turns his head to look at her. “You still came along.”
There’s really no arguing with that, but he’d be willing to give it a go.
“Against my better judgement.” He feels slightly like a petulant child saying it, and also rather like he doth protest too much.
“Why? Are you worried you’ll actually enjoy yourself?”
That is, of course, exactly what he’s worried about. That and being murdered in his sleep by a ruthless, entirely too trigger-happy train robber, who’s bound to realise that they’re not there for whatever flimsy excuse for a reason she’ll have cooked up. “Please just focus on driving, Miss Fisher.”
Out of the corner of his eye he can see her smiling slightly, and out of the corner of hers she would be able to see him smiling back. Against his better judgement.
To Jack’s relief - and slight disappointment, either because a hypothetical night in a cell could be ‘fun’ or because it would get him out of this harebrained scheme - they make it to Frankston without interference by local police, and Phryne drives around aimlessly for a few minutes, clearly looking for something.
“Do you not know where we’re going?” he asks incredulously. Surely being a magnet for trouble should mean that she’d just be automatically pulled to their destination.
“I’m sure I’ll know it when I see it,” she replies, craning her neck slightly as if that’ll help her recognise the building she’s looking for.
He shakes his head and leans back in his seat.
Ten minutes later they pass a restaurant he’s convinced they’ve driven by at least twice already, now going at a pace that even Jack considers bordering on too slow. “Just ask someone for directions,” he suggests.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” she insists.
“But how are you ever going to see it if you keep driving around in circles?”
She glares at him and takes the same left turn she took the last two times they drove down this street.
They’re about to overtake (Well, they're working towards catching up with) a man walking his dog. “Excuse me, sir,” Jack calls out and the man stops, turning to look at them.
Her hand utterly forced, Phryne stops the car completely.
“We’re looking for the Bay View Hotel,” Jack says to the stranger, ignoring the way she huffs behind him. “Could you possibly point us in the right direction?”
The man looks at them both. “It’s up that way,” he says, pointing to where they’d have ended up if she had taken a right turn after the restaurant instead of her usual left. “Where you get a view of the bay.”
Jack smiles, trying to look more grateful than amused at the not-too-subtle sarcasm.
“Thank you ever so much,” Phryne says, leaning over to look out the window, keeping her balance with the aid of a hand planted firmly on Jack’s upper thigh, her shoulder resting against his. He can feel the outline of her breast against his upper arm. He does what he can to sit very, very still.
“You folks here on your honeymoon?” the man asks, either nosiness or polite interest, Jack isn’t really sure because all he can focus on is the pattern Miss Fisher is drawing with her thumb, which is taking her within very close range of a part of his anatomy that would be perfectly happy with her getting closer still and which seems to be doing its best to make that proximity happen.
“Yes, thank you,” he says quickly, wondering if it might not be a good idea to jump out of the car and walk the rest of the way.
“Did you just tell that man we were newlyweds?” she asks him in a whisper, turning her head to look at Jack instead of the stranger who’s walking on slowly but still watching them. She’s so close he can feel her warm breath on his face as she speaks. And her hand is still there although there’s less weight on it now. Basically, there’s no way she’s touching him for any other reason than to touch him. Or possibly because she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it, but it seems unlikely. She’s looking entirely too smug for that.
“What?” Jack asks. “No.” The argument could probably be made that he did, now that he thinks about it.
“I think you did,” she says, her red lips curling up in a smile.
Against his better judgement (perhaps the truth is he in fact has no better judgement; he only has the terrible kind that lands him in Phryne Fisher’s car with her half in his lap) he smiles back. It’s impossible not to.
Which is why the Serious Trouble is feeling so inevitable.
He thinks he might kiss her; for a moment she looks like she might kiss him. He can’t think of a single reason why they shouldn’t, and then a dog barks loudly, and he can think of about five reasons all at once.
That dog and its owner being two very good ones. “I think he said that way, Miss Fisher,” Jack says, pointing.
She scoots back into her own seat still smiling, and then - mercifully - drives on without another word.
As it turns out she does know the place when she sees it. Jack reckons he would’ve known it as well, what with the massive sign reading “Bay View Hotel” that has been put up on the roof of the white two-storey building and all.
She parks haphazardly on the side of building, and he grabs both their bags and lets her walk ahead of him inside. The fact that her bag is much lighter than his is hardly surprising considering his own method of packing, but still faintly humiliating. Mainly because she’ll turn out to have brought six perfectly coordinated outfits, whereas he will have brought… cufflinks and three or four books on botany, he’s suddenly remembering.
The reception area of the hotel looks inconspicuous enough, no sign at all that this place is run by a man with several lives on his conscience to be found in the sand and burgundy colour scheme or the dark wooden furniture. Nor is there any proof of the wealth he has acquired robbing trains in the way everything looks threadbare and just shy of shabby.
“Jones, we have a reservation,” Miss Fisher says to the young woman who appears from behind a curtain and comes to stand behind a counter, looking at them with what Jack can only describe as a sincere lack of interest.
The girl turns a page in the ledger of reservations, searching for the name.
“It’s right there,” Miss Fisher says, pointing at it helpfully once she’s done reading the whole page upside down. Behind her Jack rolls his eyes.
The young woman looks at the name as if this is the first time anyone has asked her to read cursive and then from Phryne to Jack and back again. “One room, three nights?” she says at last.
“That’s right,” Miss Fisher confirms and Jack opens his mouth to object and then closes it again. She said one night, there’s no way he would’ve agreed to three. For one thing he has to be back in Melbourne in two days, he has a meeting with the chief commissioner.
(He told himself - and her - there was no way he’d agree to one, so this new objection would’ve been feeble at best. And possibly it’d interfere with whatever cover story she has laid out for them, which is the main reason he’s not saying anything. Definitely.)
“Have you worked here long?” Miss Fisher asks conversationally as the young woman makes some notes in the ledger, presumably about which room they’ll be given.
“Few months.”
“And what happened to the girl who worked here before you?” It’s not the most subtle of interviewing techniques, but this woman frankly looks like they could wave the ‘Wanted’ poster Miss Fisher tore from the wall at City South this morning under her nose and she still wouldn’t realise she was being questioned. And if she did, she probably wouldn’t care.
“Moved away.”
“Oh,” Miss Fisher sounds intrigued and faintly vindictive, like a cat that has its prey cornered. Jack makes a mental note to stay away from any and all corners. “Just up and left, did she?”
The woman shrugs and turns around to find a key for them in a cabinet on the wall behind her. “Upstairs, end of the hall.”
“Thank you very much, Miss…?” Miss Fisher says, pausing expectantly.
The woman just points at the stairs. “It’s there.”
Jack stifles a grin. “Excellent work, Miss Fisher,” he says once they’re at a safe distance. “You’ll have her telling us everything she knows in no time.”
“I imagine that wouldn’t take very long,” she retorts, locating the door to their room and turning the key in the lock before turning around with a look on her face that is intensely troubling, mainly in that it usually means trouble of the kind that Jack keeps telling himself he needs to avoid, although he’s running out of reasons why. “You know…” she says slowly, reaching out a hand to grip the lapel of his coat, her knuckles brushing against his chest as she tugs on the fabric gently.
Holding a bag in each hand he is utterly defenceless against the attack. His feet, traitors that they are, take a step closer to her.
“Since we’re newlyweds, I do think it’s customary for you to carry me over the threshold,” she says at last, looking up at him through thick lashes, her tongue darting out to lick the corner of her mouth.
He swallows. “I believe that tradition only applies at home, Miss Fisher, not in hotels.”
“Holiday cottages?” she asks, her voice entirely too innocent.
He grins slightly. “Definitely not.”
“Are you saying you didn’t?” she asks, and he’s not entirely sure if her surprise is genuine or teasing.
He gives her look that’s meant to suggest that she’s being utterly ridiculous and doesn’t reply. Which she is, of course. As always. But he also did, of course. At home. Because it is tradition and there was a time when Jack was a very traditional man, he thinks to himself wistfully. (The kind of traditional man who wouldn’t dream of checking into seaside hotels with women he wasn’t married to. Now he wouldn’t only dream of doing it, he has actually gone and done it.)
She’s still looking at him expectantly, ready to jump into his arms if he gives any indication at all that he might be inclined to catch her.
At this precise moment in time, he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t just let her drop to the floor, honour and gentlemanly knee-jerk reactions be damned.
“No,” he says flatly but firmly. A blanket denial that’s meant to cover any and all mad suggestions it might occur to her to make before morning.
She rolls her eyes and walks into the room ahead of him. “You know, being married to you isn’t as much fun as I had expected,” she says wistfully.
“I’m sure Rosie would agree with you there,” he replies drily, following her inside.