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Perhaps a career in the theater beckons after all, Inspector. MISS FISHER'S MURDER MYSTERIES (2012–2015) — 1x06 "Ruddy Gore"
Shouldn't you be clapping me in irons? / Too much paperwork. MISS FISHER'S MURDER MYSTERIES (2012–2015) — 1x03 "The Green Mill Murder"
I can fill you in on the rest, but first, you need a costume. MISS FISHER'S MURDER MYSTERIES (2012–2015) — 1x12 "Murder in the Dark"
22 for Phryne and Jack, please 🥰
22. falling asleep on the other’s shoulder
The stakeout has run all night, and Bert is already snoring like a hacksaw in the passenger seat, so Cec is the one driving the cab back to Melbourne.
The sun rises rosy around them and the silence is complete, the exhausted kind, where breaking it feels like you’re trying to talk through a cloud of dreams. Cec taps the wheel and hums to himself, knowing the other passengers won’t hear over Bert's snores anyway.
In the back seat, Inspector Robinson laughs softly, a ragged sound from a man so ordinarily uptight.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Miss Fisher says.
“I was just thinking—driving with you can be relaxing. So long as you’re not at the wheel.”
Cec glances at them through the rear view mirror; Miss Fisher elbows him, and Robinson chuckles again, and the cloud of silence settles again over their lingering smiles.
It is another hour before they arrive at Wardlow. Bert jerks awake with a grunt as soon as the engine shuts off; he looks around suspiciously, notes the abrupt daylight and the familiar environs, and finally slides his eyes sideways to Cec.
Cec beams too-brightly at Bert. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Stuff it,” Bert grumbles, without heat. He looks into the backseat and abruptly closes his mouth on whatever smart remark would’ve come next.
Miss Fisher and Inspector Robinson have dozed off, leaning against each other with her head on his shoulder. At the sudden quietness of the car, Miss Fisher, too, stirs, and blinks at her surroundings, utterly still. She catches the eyes of the cabbies, and winks, and settles in snug as a bug.
“Five more minutes, then, free of charge,” Bert says.
"You're very benevolent today, Sleeping Beauty."
“Stuff it," Bert repeats, and adds more thoughtfully, "Think Butler’s got his scones out of the oven by now?”
“We're late, I bet. Maybe Dot's got some tea for us?” Cec says conversationally, and they step from the cab, closing the doors quietly behind them.
(touch drabble prompts!)
52 for phryne + jack?
52. gripping thigh
Phryne knows the instant she has pushed this interrogation too far, but still she continues to push. Enough pressure applied to a crack can force a boulder to split, and she is in a mind to cleave.
She feels a touch against her leg beneath the table and ignores it—she is always too close to Jack, a touch here and there is nothing unusual—but then his hand grips at her thigh, tight and shockingly hot through the fabric of her trousers. It is placed too high to be friendly, too low to be sensual. It is a warning. He trusts her to aid in interrogations, and she has—well. She has flubbed it.
Phryne retreats from her pursuit with an elegant turn of the conversation, hoping her embarrassment is not evident. The boulder does not crack; the witness keeps his jaw as tightly shut as his expression.
“Well, that’s enough of that,” Jack says, and without taking his eyes from the witness, calls, “Constable? Will you take Mr. Howard back to the cell? I think we could all use some time to cool off.”
Howard pointedly avoids Phryne’s piercing eyes as Collins leads him away. The door clicks shut, and Jack waits until the footsteps have softened to release Phryne and stand. He half-sits against the edge of the table, peering at her with his infuriating, respectable, patient gaze.
“It was badly done,” she says, before he can, “but I do not take to hollow promises, Jack.”
“Hollow promises?” he repeats, wry.
Phryne sets her hand on his thigh, precisely where he had on hers. His eyes slowly lower, as though to confirm she is really, truly trying this—then they snap back up to her face.
“There was nothing hollow about my warning, Miss Fisher," he says. Does his voice tremor slightly, do his cheeks tinge pink?
“But you do not deny the promise?”
“I have never denied you your unique interpretations.”
“That is a polite way of saying you are wrong,” she retorts, “and today, I might even deserve it.”
Jack snorts. He rolls his eyes and, beneath her hand, tenses. Phryne follows his gaze to find Collins standing in the doorway of the interrogation room, his attention thankfully still on the notepad in his hand. She gives Jack’s thigh a quick squeeze before they both return to business.
(touch drabble prompts!)
Hellooo! I don't fully understand the imaginary fic thing, but I've deduced from your recent post that they don't have to be titles and we can send you quotes instead 😂 For Phryne and Jack (from the P!nk song "Long Way to Go"): "Don't you realize / That all my demons and fears disappear now? / When you stay up with me, up with me all night / I wanna show you my scars in the daylight"
Thank you! 🥰
imaginary fic title prompts!
“It’s stupid.”
With two fingers, Phryne holds the sleeve of Jack’s robe, like he is a specimen to be inspected; this exposes the white swath of scar down his ribs to the sunlight. She raises her eyebrows without releasing him, prompting him to continue.
“In Paris,” he says, “in the war.” Jack pauses, just long enough for Phryne to hold her breath—she had picked this scar for its unusual location and unclear origins, so unlike the ones clearly inflicted by service on the front—but then he relents, “We were on leave, and I used mine to learn to ride a motorcycle. Skidded out in front of an entire café of onlookers.”
Phryne drops his sleeve to try, and fail, to cover her laugh.
“I am aware it’s hardly brave.”
“Oh, but it doesn't need to be; it is very dashing, Jack. Women love a man with scars. Including this one.”
“I couldn’t tell,” he says dryly, as he sits mostly naked in her bed.
Phryne grins and returns to her task, tracing the coarse rippling edge of the scar with her fingertips. “Did they pick much gravel out of it?” she asks.
“So much gravel,” he says, gravely. “I thought I would never leave that surgery room.”
if you’re still taking prompts for the five lines fic ask: robinfish + “give me my robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me” (from antony & cleopatra, of course)
imaginary fic title prompts!
“You almost blew your cover.”
Jack is behind her affixing gauze to the wound in her shoulder, but Phryne knows he is frowning. “If it’s between your taking a knife to the back, or my brief undercover identity being compromised, I know what I’m picking every time.”
His fingers glide to tug the strap of her dress back into place, a light but efficient motion; Phryne’s skin tingles more in anticipation than reaction.
“Well, I can hardly complain about that.”
“But?” Jack prompts.
“But,” she relents, with a glance over her shoulder, “isn’t it a shame that you get to have all the fun? A brilliant ball, a sharp new suit, a fake name, new impressions to be made every moment…”
“A rich, beautiful woman to cling to,” he finishes obligingly. His lips twitch, not quite a smile. “This is your scene, Miss Fisher, not mine. And you are your best you—even when you are pursued by a madman with a knife before dinner is even served.”
Jack pauses. “One of the links of your necklace snapped. Here, I can…” There is a shift of fabric, the quietest chime of metal as he pulls his collar pin free and fastens it to either end of the broken link. It settles against her neck, cold against his warm hands. “There.”
Before she can comment, he pulls her feathered shawl back over her shoulders, covering the breakage of both her jewelry and skin. Finally Phryne turns to him fully. “You’ve a habit of fixing things wherever you go, Inspector.”
“A dangerous name to use, here and now. Weren’t you just concerned about the integrity of my cover?”
“It’s rare that I’m ever concerned about integrity.”
“That’s not true,” he rebuts, gently, and when she drapes her arms around his neck, he automatically sets his hands on her waist. “Are you all right? We should return to the gala.”
“Should we? This company is much preferable.”
Hellooo! "Night" for Phryne and Jack for the ask game, please 🥰
32. night
“This seems…inadvisable.” Phryne peers down at him and offers her hand; by the moonlight her eyes are colorless, but no less keen as she says, “Come, Jack, even if it were, do you think I could be dissuaded?” Jack concedes the point. Had the hour been any younger—had he had one less glass of brandy—had she been any less earnestly solicitous—he could, perhaps, have protested more fiercely to this sojourn to the roof of Wardlow. As it is, he takes her hand, clambers up, folds himself cross-legged beside her upon the tiles still warm from the day’s setting sun, and enjoys Phryne’s setting of her head on his shoulder in comfortable, sighing silence.
send me a prompt, get a 5-sentence drabble! ✨
