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The last thing Jack Robinson remembered was sitting his whisky and soda down on the bar. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the searing pain in his arm and the bite and burn of the rough rope to clear the cobwebs. He needed to anchor himself firmly into the present, keep a cool head, if he harboured any hope of escaping.

The dingy room was windowless and, from the looks of it, had no means of exit. Though he had to admit that was illogical... He and his hosts had hardly been dropped in from the ceiling. Apart from the weapons his captors held, there was little that could be used for defense beyond a few sacks of rice and some mouldering cabbages.

The guard taunted his charge. "Awake, yair? Only fer long enough to wish ya was dead. Filthy copper." He aimed his weapon at Jack's leg, spitting on the folded knee… Marking his target. "Dif'rent sort of 'terrogation, this."

It was at that precise moment when she tumbled comically through a secret door, looking wholly unrespectable and utterly delicious in a wisp of a dress. Her skin gleamed with its own incandescence and Jack thought he must be hallucinating. He had heard stories of so-called angels of death from survivors on the French battlefields and wondered if his subconscious had called forth the very image of joie de vivre to usher him safely into the darkness.

But as the scent of French perfume floated in on a current, providing a reprieve from the stench of rotting vegetation and sick that permeated his nostrils, he knew she was most definitely real.

She was here… Against his express wishes and despite every precaution he had taken to keep her out of this case. And, because she never did things by halves, it was only natural that she did it while wrapped around another man.

Phryne Fisher grappled for purchase in the lapels of a dapper, young, and sartorially elegant figure, their open mouths moving in a passionate and all-consuming kiss. It seemed to Jack a twisted parody of a Gilbert and Sullivan though, mercifully, without the patter songs.

The 0.45 previously intended to blow apart his knee cap wavered and circled around like the needle of a compass, as its master's polarity was diverted by the intrusion. "Oi!" the gunman shouted to the oblivious couple.

The man in the cream-coloured suit disentangled himself from his companion and offered up his hands in surrender. He offered apologies into the business end of the revolver, his well-appointed English far too proper to have been his native tongue. Jack stared daggers.

Lin Chung covertly surveyed the space as he feigned surprise. If the moving shadows were anything to judge by, they would have to deal with at least two men, with not much space to maneuver. Bringing their own weapons had been out of the question. "I was led to believe this was a private room."

"It is," grunted the man closest to the chair-bound figure. "So get the fuck out 'less ya wanna end up like this blighter."

When Hugh had called, frantic with the news that the Inspector had disappeared without a trace from his undercover assignation, Phryne knew exactly where to look thanks to Lin's connections. She had only hoped to find him alive.

Sparing a glance toward Jack, she took in his appearance. He was in his shirt sleeves and filthy, the fabric covering his left arm was drenched with blood. His brow dripped sweat and he sported a small cut over his right cheekbone. A puddle of sick pooled on the floor beneath the chair to which he was tied, hand and foot. But he was most thankfully alive and, judging from the look on his face, fighting the urge to shout her down.

The gunman caught her looking at his captive, misjudging her expression as one of fear for herself. "'S wut 'appens when ya stick ya conk where it don't belong."

Stomping a Cuban-heeled shoe on the dusty storeroom floor, Phryne spoke accusingly in a rather stuttered-sounding foreign tongue. Her hair ornament glittered angrily under the light of an unshielded bulb which, hanging down from the ceiling, gave the faint impression of a hangman's noose. "How dare you threaten us. Don't you know who this is?" she demanded, gesturing to the handsome Chinese man. "You are threatening the heir to the Hu family fortune..."

A second man stepped out from a dark corner into the plinth of light. His face was weather-worn, his eyes pale and soulless. The knife in his hand was still stained garnet with the policemen's blood. "We don't take orders from yellow heathens or their filthy whores," he growled with distaste even as his gaze hovered over the woman's barely covered form. "You're no better 'an a dog to lay down with this beast, no matter how fancy he dresses."

"This beast," she said imperiously, moving closer to the second assailant, "Imports the best opium in all of the Antipodes. So unless you want to explain to your boss why his supplies have suddenly run dry, I suggest you show some respect."

The withered face turned toward the Chinese and eyed him suspiciously, lowering his knife only a fraction. "Control your bitch or we'll have to put her down."

"She does not understand the way things are. We mean no disrespect." Lin explained, then turned to his concubine and spoke harshly to her in his native tongue. When she pulled her shoulders back in a gesture that clearly demonstrated her intent to argue, he smacked her face with an open palm.

"This is business, Silver Lady. And none of ours."

Jack knew it must be part of the act but felt rage burn in his chest all the same. Hardly in a position to improve the situation, he silenced himself by biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

"Velly wise!" taunted the gunman, letting his arm slip to his side. In that fraction of a second, Phryne locked eyes with her current lover and nodded almost imperceptibly at her former one.

Weapons clattered to the floor as simultaneous kicks disarmed the thugs and the pairs engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Lin was more skilled than his counterpart and subdued him within a matter of minutes. Unfortunately for Phryne, her man proved a tougher adversary, even when unarmed. He blocked the jab aimed for his windpipe and grabbed a handful of her hair, forcing her to her knees.

She leveraged their weight and rolled him over her, kicking out against him. Her heel only grazed her attacker's groin as Jack impotently struggled against his bonds, desperate to reach her. The man roared with anger and pulled himself up to sit astride her, wrapping a meaty hand around her throat. Jack heard the wheeze of air leave her lungs as her attacker leaned forward to reach for the knife hilt that glinted just over her shoulder.

"Phryne!" Jack howled, watching helplessly as Lin Chung pulled the man off Phryne and landed a stunning blow to his chest. 

Free of the incapacitating weight, she scrambled to her feet, sliding over the loose grains of rice which now covered the floor, and upended just inches from where the revolver had landed. 
Still huffing for breath, she lifted her arms and trained it on the man's tackle. Despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her hands were surprisingly steady

"Quietly now, or I'll have your guts for garters and your cock for a piccolo.... If anything survives the blast."

From the corridor came a worried voice. "Miss? Miss!"

"In here, Dot! Tilt the picture frame!"

"Oh!" breathed Mrs. Collins in relief, shuttling through the door with her Luger held confidently in her hands. "Thank God you're all alright," she mumbled and crossed herself, the butt of the gun kissing her forehead, breastbone, and each shoulder. Forgetting himself, Jack stared at her, almost envying the lucky bastard who would get to write the arrest report.

As if summoned by Jack's thoughts, Senior Constable Collins entered the hidden room seconds later with Mathis and two more men on his heels. To his credit, the newlywed didn't seem surprised to find his wife comfortable being so well armed. Only when the gang members were safely in police custody did Dorothy replace the safety and stow the weapon in her leather bag.

Crossing slowly across the room, Phryne retrieved the knife from the floor and made her way toward the foolish policeman who stared at her with a curious mix of relief and disappointment.

"Jack," she whispered, kneeling before him and caressing his face gently. "You're bleeding," she said, far more calmly than she felt, as she began sawing through the thick rope.

He nodded.

When he was free, she gently massaged his ankles and then his forearms, encouraging the blood back into his extremities. "Anything broken?"

He shook his head.

"Dot," she began, unwilling to remove her eyes from Jack's face. "I'm sure Hugh will want to speak with Lin. Would you...?"

"Of course," Mrs. Collins replied, exchanging a knowing glance with her employer. "Mr. Lin? Perhaps I can sort you out a cuppa along the way?"

Lin bowed gracefully to Phryne, issued a curt nod to the Inspector, and allowed himself to be led out of the room by the pretty young woman. She was certainly no longer the innocent lamb he had first met. But, then, neither was he.

Jack hadn't spoken since shouting her given name during the scuffle. Worried, she took his hands, her thumbs rubbing circles into his large palms as her fingertips glanced over the thick veins and tendons stretched across the backs. "Did they--?"

"I'm fine, Miss Fisher."

His voice sounded hollow, but she released her breath all the same. He was going to be alright. A bath, a whisky - she glanced at the putrid puddle on the floor and reconsidered the whisky - perhaps a once-over by Dr. Mac, followed by a night in her arms, and all would be well on its way to forgotten.

"I suppose I'll have to rethink our Sunday afternoon plans, Inspector. A shame, really, as my thoughts of you in restraints are far more pleasurable than this."

His face blanched. "Everything's a joke to you isn't it?" he hissed. "I forgot that you haven't taken anything seriously since 1918. That appears to include police orders."

When she caught up with him, he was ordering a constable she didn't know to drive him to the Station so he could give his official statement.

"Jack! You need to rest. It can wait til tomorrow."

"No," he said sternly, his tone making it clear there was no room for argument. "I need to sort this tonight." He paused for a breath and wistfully stroked the light pink bloom on her cheek. "Mr. Lin isn't likely to give up his foothold so easily."

Behind closed lids, he considered what sort of armistice would have to be negotiated. Knowing what he did about Lin Chung, Jack wasn't sure he could afford to pay the reparations.

"I'm sure I can rely on him to see you safely home."

"Jack--"

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It was nearly midnight when the green doors of City South opened and a bedraggled Jack Robinson stepped out onto the sidewalk, nearly walking right in to the side of the sleek red car.

"Get in," she demanded. He was too tired to protest and, despite her driving, he was asleep before they even reached St. Kilda.

Jack's lids were too heavy to obey his brain's command to open and, for the second time that evening, he fought down the unnerving sensation of being carried by two men along a flight of stairs and down a long corridor. Deposited into a chair, he was left to rest as the household obeyed orders issued in whispers.

He had a vague sense of déjà vu as he woke, the similarities causing him to relive the day's events over again, when her voice met his ears.

"Come, Lin, dear," she said softly and he felt his throat constrict with a tightness that had little to do with his physical injuries.

Hushed voices drifted through the half-closed door. At best, it sounded like a conspiracy charge. At worst, blackmail.

"...stick to the story... lovers... nothing to implicate..."
"...I would you know... Camellia... part of our culture... miss you..."
"...oh, Lin... fondly of you... but..."
"...my word... no harm shall come to him..."
"...thank you... never repay you..."
"...rely... friendship... Silver Lady..."
"...of course..."

A sickening sensation churned his stomach. Lin Chung had them exactly where he wanted them.

"Inspector Robinson?" the familiar voice held concern as it broke through Jack's ruminations. "Inspector? Allow me to help you stand. Miss Fisher says we must get these wounds clean before you can retire."

"Miss Fisher says, does she Mr. Butler? Yes, yes, of course."

His feet unsteady beneath him, he allowed the older man to support him under his shoulder as he made his way into her powder room where his personal effects were laid out on the sink top and a steaming bath awaited him. Mr. Butler swirled a generous amount of salts and a medicinal smelling oil into the water as Jack, able at last to rid himself of the taste of blood and filth in his mouth, washed his face and cleaned his teeth.

"May I take your shirt, Sir? Perhaps I can salvage it." Jack knew better than to doubt Tobias Butler's prodigious talents, but he wasn't entirely certain he wanted a sartorial momento of the evening's events even if it would save him a few quid. Nonetheless, he slipped out of it with assistance and braced himself against the countertop to assess the damage in the mirror.

He looked like shite. But as punchups went, he thought wryly, he'd been in worse. The petechiae around his eyes would disappear in a few days' time and his cheek would heal on its own - and probably leave him with a tiny scar she would find roguish. His wrists were red and raw in places. The knife wound was bleeding again but it appeared to be a clean cut, even if it would require more than a few stitches. But there was no denying just how perilously close he'd been to the end. Bad enough to have nearly meet his maker, he thought. Now, he was indebted to the very devil. The irony forced a bark of a laugh to catch in his throat.

It had been foolhardy to go without back up, he admitted to himself. Overconfident. He had thought his cover iron-clad. It was a miscalculation and very nearly a deadly one. He looked blearily into his eyes, noting the dilated pupils. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, leaving him wondering if he had been drugged or sustained a head injury.

"Mickey Finn," a musical voice informed him, as if reading his mind. "That's how they were able to ambush you." He watched her approach in the mirror. She was fresh-faced and covered up in a deep blue oriental dressing gown. On his way out, Mr. Butler exchanged a quiet word with his mistress and pressed a battered metal box into her hands.

Phryne moved purposefully about the room, dragging a carved teak stool closer to the tub and setting various implements out on the sink top. Triaging, he realized. She opened the metal box to reveal the contents of a well-stocked medical kit, no doubt purloined from the Allies during her or her butler's service. Either was a likely option.

"Mac isn't sure what it is yet, but there were traces of sedatives found in your glass. You're going to feel rather poorly for the next day or so." She pointed to the stool. "Sit."

He sank silently onto the seat as she stepped behind him, lifting his singlet carefully over his head and surveying him for further damage. She mapped his skull with her fingertips and, finding no evidence of a blow, lowered herself to gently remove his shoes, socks, and garters. Her warm palm lingered on his knee, drawing his attention to the torture he might have endured had freight train Fisher not barged in. Overcompensating for the fact that he still had two fully functioning legs thanks to her interference, he stood up rather quickly and removed the remainder of his clothing himself.

The water stung his abrasions and rope-burned wrists as he shakily lowered himself into her bathtub, forcing a hiss from his throat. "I know," she commiserated. "But it will help prevent infection. And I'm afraid this," she warned, jiggling a small bottle of tincture, "Is going to be even worse."

She bathed him as she had undressed him - with none of her usual coyness. As if he were a child. Or Hugh Collins. He pushed the resentment down deeper, where it joined with jealousy and self-righteousness to fuse into a glowing coal of anger. He was almost grateful for the pain as she cleaned the wound to his arm. When she made to wash his hair, he halted her with outstretched arm.

"Am I unable even to bathe without your constant interference?" he snapped, unable to stand another second of her coddling.

"Jack? What are you talking about?" She stared at him, unbelieving. How many times had he rescued her? Her unsung hero. Her liberal-minded man. She had not expected his rebuke when she returned the favour.

"I am obviously no longer capable of handling an investigation on my own." He turned his face away from her. "I'm not proud of it, Miss Fisher," he said regrettably, "But there it is. Apparently, I've grown soft."

"I'd hardly say that," she cheeked without thought, and regretted it instantly.

"Goddammit, Phryne! Do you have any idea what they say about me? About us?" he asked, eyes blazing. Her mouth gaped open as if to answer but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being reasonable. "That I'm hen-pecked! Led around by my cock and taking the credit for your solve rate… While you bat your eyelashes at everything wearing a pair of trousers and occasionally a skirt!"

His eyes were pleading with her even as the vitriol spilled from his lips. "And I ignore it. God help me, I ignore it! Chalk it up to envy or stupidity… Because no one with a pulse could be immune to your charms. And you're so bloody clever, Phryne! So fucking good at it that I could never mind you being two steps ahead!"

Water sloshed over the side of the tub as he gesticulated. Words alone were not enough to emphasize his frustration. "But, I asked you to leave it alone for both our sakes! One bloody case in how many? And you couldn't even respect me enough to do that."

She knelt down at the foot of the bath, submerging a hand beneath the water to rest lightly on his ankle, and looked out into the black expanse beyond the windowpane. Unwilling to let him see the fear in her eyes as she gave it voice, but needing to feel connected to him all the same.

"Don't you think I know what they would have done to you?" she asked, her voice breaking over the lump in her throat. "A copper with the nerve to infiltrate their organization? Jack… You would have been made an example of..."

What she left unspoken couldn't be borne. He was here. He was safe and relatively unscathed. Phryne could not allow the images of him being tortured to take up permanent residence in her psyche, but they hung in the air like a ghostly fog.

"What if it had been me? Could you have stayed away? Left me to languish alone and in agony, my body broken, so my pride could remain intact?" Peering into his face, she read the answer in his eyes. "I didn't think so."

"You could have called Mulligan," Jack accused her, referring to his old friend in Vice.

"I'm sorry Jack. I wasn't sure who I could trust."

He refused to back down… She had no idea what she had done. "What about my men, then? Collins would walk over hot coals for you, the bloody traitor. Or... or even Albert!"

"I did," she admitted, stroking her hand reassuringly along the top of his foot. "Bert, Cec, and Dot held the line on the inside. Hugh and yours were waiting outside for Dot's signal. It took the lot of us to breach their defenses, Jack. The place was guarded like a fortress."

He cupped his face in his hands and sagged against the stone, feeling more vulnerable than he had ever imagined possible. His voice, when he spoke, was barely a whisper. "How can I possibly face anyone after this?"

It sounded like survivor's guilt, she thought. It would fit except no one but the Inspector had been captured. "Jack," she said softly, trying to make sense of it. "You're alive. You're free. I don't understa--"

"Him, Phryne! For the love of Christ! Lin Chung. Of all the men in Melbourne, why did you have to go running to him?"

His question was barely a whisper and yet it rang out, ricocheting against the honeycomb tile and piercing her heart like shrapnel. Phryne had no choice but to retreat.

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Jack had washed and dried as quickly as his injuries had allowed. He would have to piece himself back together and move on. He'd done it before and was only slightly less certain that he could do it again.

The door creaked open. "I suppose it's too much to ask for a moment's peace."

"Peace be damned, Jack, I don't feel right leaving you alone-- What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Jack stood at her mirror with a towel slung around his hips, the metal box opened before him. He secretly thrilled at her reaction. It was tiring being the voice of reason all of the time and he was glad for the chance to be the cause of censure for once. With gritted teeth and the suturing needle gripped firmly in his right hand, he threaded the second neat stitch through his own flesh.

"Nothing I haven't done before," he informed her blithely. Jack had donned the mask of indifference she hadn't seen since their first case together and sewed with less complaint than Dot had exhibited over her latest sampler. "Although I daresay bachelorhood has rendered me a bit better at it."

"Your delusions know no bounds, Jack! First, you go off on this undercover scheme, half-cocked, and without a word to me... And, now, you think a few years of darning your own socks qualifies you as a medic?"

"Once again Miss Fisher, your insight is spot on," he replied, masochistically savoring the bitterness in his voice. "Every word stabs, yet delusional is precisely what I've been."

"I hope that's the ethylene talking," she said dangerously, plucking the needle from his fingers. "Or did you find that quoting acid-tongued barbs sufficiently cowed your former wife? I assure you, Jack… You'll need more mettle than that for me. You're made of earth, after all."

Tugging a bit more roughly on the thread than she would have otherwise, Phryne manoeuvered Jack to lean back against the sink. He winced.

"And what is Mr. Lin made of?" Jack asked with the veiled smirk he usually reserved for interrogation questions to which he already knew the answers. Jack had been considering that Phryne had, perhaps, known precisely what she was doing by invoking the man's assistance in his extraction. "Poppies?"

That caught her off guard. He surmised that, for once, she would have much preferred his feelings on Lin Chung to be more about jealousy than legalities.

"The same valiant dust as you and I, Jack."

It was no good. Jack recognized her tells at once, affirming his new theory when she replied a little too quickly and in an octave higher than her usual pitch.

"Last time I checked, you and I weren't smuggling narcotics into the country." He searched her eyes and was not surprised to find complicity. He was, however, surprised to find a tinge of guilt.

"When did you realize it wasn't a ruse?" she asked, her tone unreadable.

"You would have both been killed on the spot if he wasn't the man you claimed him to be."

She braced her body against his and sunk her first stitch, jumping when he attempted to pull away. Phryne was unused to such a negative reaction when she touched him. She stopped and stroked the soft skin on the inside of his bicep to reassure him.

"But you suspected it before that. Didn't you?" she asked, keen to learn what he knew.

Jack nodded, his lips thinning as he pressed them together. "Vice is determined to get something on the Hu family. There's a lot of speculation but very little proof that points to Lin Chung as the lynchpin of the syndicate. He keeps his business records impeccably clean." He sighed heavily before continuing. "Your... (cough)... fondness for the man wasn't exactly a secret in Little Lon... So when the opportunity arose to take down one of the Hu's largest customers, I was assigned to the case in spite of our… ah... partnership. Or possibly because of it."

She thought she might burst if he continued to look at her like that. But at least now she understood. "They wanted you to persuade me to gather evidence on Lin," she gasped.

"I wanted you out of it, Phryne!" he bellowed, all thoughts of his wound gone from his mind as he twisted out of her grasp, leaving the needle to dangle painfully from its tether. "His involvement tonight compromises us both! God knows what you could be implicated in if they wanted to dredge up your history with him as leverage!"

She stood in full offense, her hands on her hips. "How dare you, Jack Robinson! I have never-"

"I'm not saying for a moment you did. But he has, Phryne!" Jack threw out his arm and pointed toward her bedroom, as if that were more than enough to demonstrate just exactly who he meant. "He may have harboured noble ideals once, but times have changed... I'll be lucky if I don't lose my badge over this."

"You could have easily lost your life over it! Lin helped me to save you. Sometimes the world isn't as black and white as we'd like it to be, Jack." She hesitated for a moment, wondering how much she should share. She needed him to trust her judgment. "It was the only way."

He studied her carefully. "What aren't you telling me?"

"You didn't blow your cover," she said, hating to be the one to break this news. "A sergeant from Vice was on the take. He recognized you."

"Another dirty cop…" He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering when he would stop being surprised.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

He acknowledged her empathy with a melancholic smile. "And Lin Chung heard about it..."

Phryne nodded, "He used his connections to find out where they were holding you. I couldn't have gotten to you without him."

"You're losing your touch," he chided softly.

"Perhaps," she smiled. "Or perhaps I wasn't willing to risk it."

Jack smiled back but it didn't reach his eyes. "But what did you risk? What do we owe Mr. Lin for his intervention? Another policeman in his pocket? Not some ruddy sergeant this time... a detective inspector has some influence."

"You are a man of the law, Jack." She folded her arms across her chest. "No one will take that from you so long as I have air to breathe."

"An invitation to your bed, then?"

"There is no debt," she said with finality, effectively closing the door on that line of questioning. "I saved his wife and now he has returned the favour."

"Phryne..." he appealed, "You can't expect him not to use this... if only to save his own skin! If what you say is true, then he will have placed his loyalty to you above that to his family."

"His involvement was purely a coincidence. I ran into Lin Chung when I was in the Oriental markets ordering silk for a new gown," she said matter-of-factly, raising herself to her full height. "We shared a pot of oolong in one of the tea houses and that's when he asked me to come out with him. It's been too long since I enjoyed the darker delights of the city," she proclaimed, ignoring the way Jack narrowed his eyes at her. "We danced and drank the night away the way we used to, before Camellia. And when we needed to find some privacy to get... reacquainted, we stumbled right into a crime being committed. The hoodlums threatened us and we had no choice but to defend ourselves."

"No choice," Jack intoned. "I expect you've just saved me the time reading Mr. Lin's statement?"

"And mine."

"Hmm," he huffed. It was a rather ingenious plan, he hated to admit, affording a believable account of the evening's events. It was widely known that the two were old friends and innumerable witnesses could be provided to confirm that the pair had been canoodling all around Chinatown. It had her fingerprints all over it. Against all odds, she had managed to construct a story that protected all of them. "And he accepted your terms?" he asked, thinking of the conversation he had overheard earlier between the conspirators.

"Yes. I have his word."

"The word of a criminal--" But even he heard the acquiescence in his voice as he took a step toward her. There was no way for him to corroborate the story anyway, seeing as how the first he had heard or seen of Lin Chung since going undercover had been when the man burst into the room with Phryne in his arms.

"No matter what else he may be guilty of Jack," she told him, reaching for his chin and nestling her thumb into the small cleft - a gesture to which he had become rather attached. "Lin would never threaten the life of someone I cared about."

"He didn't do it for me," Jack murmured knowingly. "He's still in love with you." Bracing his hand against the tap, he angled his wound into the light, giving her silent permission to resume the job of stitching him back together.

It was a useful skill, Phryne thought as she plucked up the needle once more. Not one she hoped to frequently employ, mind... She had Mac for that. But she couldn't deny that there something in tending Jack Robinson that appealed immensely. Her sutures would heal him. Restore him to form. And they would leave her mark upon him in a way that the world could see, but only they two would share. She decided not to think too closely on it as the muscle memory came back to her like the words of a prayer recited over and over as a child... rarely used anymore but never forgotten.

Her fingers moved in a dizzying dance, looping the thread around the nose, pulling it through then back around again at a much faster pace than his own. When the knot was secure, she snipped the threads and bandaged his arm with clean gauze.

"There," she breathed, brushing the tips of her fingers over the spot as if to seal it with a spell.

She looked into his face and shivered under the intensity of his gaze. He was ruddy with the exertion of controlling the pain, but there was something else. His pulse was thrumming visibly in his carotid, his eyes growing dark. The space between them was slowly filling with his hardening desire.

Cupping her jaw in his palm, he rubbed his thumb across the plane of her cheek. "I nearly came undone when he struck you."

She nuzzled into his hand but it had the effect of making his fingers freeze in place. He loved her attentions soft and sweet. But not now. Not after everything they had been through tonight. He needed to feel her strength, her toughness… Something to remind him that he was not going to break.

Phryne wanted to tell him that it had been rehearsed. That the move was designed to look impressive and leave little physical impact. But sensing his mood, she said, "It had to be convincing."

"I know." He tightened his grip behind her ear, fingertips nestling into the familiar contours of her skeleture. "I saw how he kissed you."

"And how was that?" she whispered a little too breathlessly for her own liking. Her insides were positively thrumming for him.

"Like a man possessed," he rumbled in a voice like honey over cut glass. "I recognized the condition at once."

And just like that, his mouth moved over hers in a punishing clash of tongue and teeth. She met his onslaught with cunning defense, kissing him back fiercely even as he punctuated the barrage with huffs of symptomatic indignities.

"Tendencies toward inadvisable action..."
"Loss of reason..."
"Overwhelming thoughts of your skin and your smell and the feel of your mouth..."
"The ill-advised urge to protect you..."

"I'm quite sure you're not suggesting that I'm to blame for a man's weakened constitution, Inspector," she taunted, nudging his erect cock with the back of her hand as she slid the other down his forearm to encircle his wrist. Confident in the outcome, Phryne pressed her nails gently into the angry skin, forcing pinpoints of pain to mix with his arousal and confuse his body.

Momentarily incapacitated, he could do little but yelp into her neck as he grew harder against her knuckles. She used the temporary advantage to make her point abundantly clear. "Partners protect each other, Jack. Don't doubt me again."

"Never."

"Good." Satisfied, she released his wrist, but gave him no time to enjoy the relief before tearing the towel from his hips and seizing his cock with both hands. His curses were music to her ears as his Australian tongue curled awkwardly but convincingly around the occasional Scottish Gaelic phrase that peppered his repertoire whenever he was particularly moved to express suffering of the carnal variety.

"Kiss your grandmother with that mouth, Jack?" she asked, allowing him to catch his breath.

"Who do you think taught them to me?" he replied slyly.

Sparkling back at him, she returned his mischievous smile, kissing him messily. "What do you want?"

"I want to carry you into the bedroom and fuck you senseless," he growled. "But I'm afraid that would be a farce." He gave a traitorous glance toward his bandaged bicep. "It would undo all your painstaking handiwork."

"We can't have that," she agreed. "But... perhaps another farce is better suited..." She broke into a wide grin that had the Pavlovian response of making Jack desire and dread what was to come next in equal measure.

"'Led around by your cock,' wasn't it, Inspector?" She laughed as her meaning made itself known and towed him by his erection to her bedside, his hands scrambling for purchase as he concentrated on planting one foot in front of the other. "Now, whenever anyone dares accuse you of such a scandalous thing," she whispered hotly in his ear, dotting the whorls with the tip of her tongue. "You can think back to this moment and feel you've earned it."

Heat bubbled up his neck like mercury. He was blushing, knowing as well as she did that he would not likely forget the wicked things her hands were currently doing to him. Definitely not idle, and so good, they couldn't be anything but the devil's workshop. Her nails grazed his scrotum and he felt himself come perilously close to whimpering. He was sure she had noticed anyway.

In need of a distraction, he mouthed at her throat, threading his left hand into her hair, his right pulling her hip closer in an effort to ease her merciless teasing. His fingers found the tie to her gown and pulled it free, shucking the silk from her shoulder so he could stroke and kiss her bare skin.

His eyes lighted to the bruises that had already begun to discolour her collarbone, remembering how he was prostrate and powerless to help her as she had been overtaken by brute force. His lips soon followed, idly wishing they could erase all traces of them until, taking a page from her book, he realized another tactic might be better suited.

Tentatively, he firmed his tongue and pushed it against the mottled skin.

"Jack!" she keened, the sensation almost too much to bear and yet she arched further into his embrace to brush her nipple against his chest.

He had caught her fully in his arms and was loathe to let go, but he had to ask. "Too much?"

"Not enough!" she wailed, curling her arm around his neck to anchor him there as he ravished her injured flesh. His pointed tongue ignited sparks of darkest pleasure along its twisted and winding path and she cried out, touching herself, as he drew a mark of his own on a favoured spot at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

"What do you want?" Jack echoed her question, knowing he would do almost anything she asked of him.

She fixed him with a glassy stare and smirked, removing her peignoir with a flourish. "You. On your knees."

Well, he thought, he could certainly do that. "Not very original, Miss Fisher," he clucked. "But I'm happy to--"

"Mmm," she continued, too wrapped up in her fantasy to pay his words any mind. "Those lovely, knobbly, embarrassingly ticklish as I recall, knees... Of which you still have two, thanks to me. Let's put them to good use."

He nearly fell over as said knees weakened demonstrably at the gall of her. "Just how much trouble has your cheek has gotten you into over your lifetime?"

"I suppose that depends on the kind of trouble you mean, Detective Inspector," she purred, perching her bottom on the edge of the bed.

"I see your point," he muttered, kissing her thoroughly as his hands grazed down the length of her torso to wrap underneath her hips. When she was confident of his descension before her, he shoved her toward the middle of the bed and pushed her legs apart, pinning her splayed thighs to the mattress with his knees.

Her wide-eyed astonishment was enough to convince him to surprise her more often. He balanced just enough weight on the balls of his feet to keep a steady pressure without hurting her. Of course, she realized this and was attempting to throw him off balance. It made for a lovely picture, her hair disheveled, breasts bouncing as she attempted to lift herself up, her hands reaching for him in vain.

"As I recall, Miss Fisher, I'm not the only one who suffers from the affliction." Listening to the devil in him, Jack reached back and whispered his fingertips along her sensitive tendons, enjoying the delicious way she squirmed beneath him, knowing every nerve would be sensitized to his touch. "Your request was not specific as to the arrangement of my salvaged knees," he said with false sympathy as his hands glided up the outsides of her legs, around her pelvis, down the silky insides of her thighs. "So you can hardly expect me to feel remorseful for what I am about to do."

His teasing voice made her pulse with need. She pressed her lips together tightly, determined not to beg. But as he traced his fingertips along the powdery skin toward her centre, she felt her resolve begin to crumble. "Spread yourself for me," he commanded, his knuckles brushing lightly against her curls.

"Fuck you, Jack!" she swore, her face flush with excitement.

"All in good time," he promised, teasing her seam and resolutely refusing to go further until she complied. Greedy eyes watched as she put on a decadent show for him, palming her breasts and stroking the skin to pucker. She slid her right down her abdomen and rested the heel on her pubis, pushing down hard to abate some of the relentless ache. Her moan reverberated through his body. "Go on," he whispered hoarsely, encouraging her to separate her fingers and split herself open. He needed to see that she was just as desperate as he felt. 

The cool air hit her wet skin and she gasped again, pressing her hips down into the bed. She was slick with need for him, every petal of her sex glistening. He gripped tightly at the base of his cock and swallowed thickly, pulling down on his muscles for just another few moments of control. Collecting himself, he returned his attention to the surfeit laid out before him and slowly mapped the delicate structures of her cunt with the calloused tip of an index finger. As in everything else Jack did, he was methodical, pushing the tension to its limits as he stroked and pinched and tickled her until she was wild, her legs quaking against his. 

When he finally pulled back her hood and stroked her, she arched up off the bed, shattering his balance, and silencing her howl against his mouth. He wrapped his left arm around her and let her roll him onto his back, where she sheathed him in one long downward movement, holding his fingers tight against her. She came hard on her third thrust, an excruciating orgasm that had her sobbing and grinding against him to wring out every last aftershock. The sound of his name in her throat as she shook pushed Jack into oblivion, the intensity of his release making him cry out, whimpering with every thrum her muscles milked from him. Exhausted and convinced that the other was still very much alive, they succumbed to sleep, tangled up together amidst the bedclothes. 

She woke a little past dawn to find him watching her, a doleful expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" she slurred, still foggy with sleep. She blinked, taking in his battered face, his bandaged arm, and remembered…Her hand darting out from beneath the doona to feel his forehead. There was no fever, but that didn't mean...

Jack removed her palm and kissed it. "I'm not ill."

"Then what--"

"I never said thank you."

"Jaa-- --aack!" she admonished with a yawn and curled into him, making a mental note to call Mac in the morning and put any lingering worries to rest. "Don't be ridiculous. You don't have to thank me." She closed her eyes, enjoying the lazy tug of somnolence as she lay securely in his arms.

"Phryne," he began, unsure of how he could possibly put into words all that he felt. 

Cupping his jaw, she nudged the tip of his nose with hers so he would smile. She pressed her lips plushly to the familiar twisted corner and slid the tip of her tongue into the tiny crevice, levering his mouth open to deliver a slow, aching kiss. "There's no need."

"I'd like to, all the same," he said earnestly, after catching his breath. His fingertips stroked down her side to rest gently on her hip.

Phryne couldn't be certain if it was his words or his touch that made her stomach flutter. She threaded her hand into the riot of curls that hung over his forehead and looked up at him fondly. "Think what you're saying, Jack. Then I'll have to thank you, and you'll have to thank me, and before long, we'll have saved each other so many times, our conversations will be utterly staid with pleasantries. I'd much rather you express your gratitude in other ways." She felt him chuckle, a tightening of his belly against hers that drew a ripple of pleasure through her.

"Pleeease," he whispered. It was a tactic he tried to use sparingly in order to maintain its effect.

"Oh, all right. I can never resist you when you beg." 

"I know you only yield upon great persuasion, Miss Fisher."

"It's a little early for Shakespeare, Jack."

"I'll stop your mouth," he husked, kissing her decadently before moving down her body to show her just how grateful for her he was.