Detective Inspector Jack Robinson is buzzing slightly when he departs Miss Fisher's St Kilda residence late in the afternoon. He puts the feeling (neither unfamiliar nor unenjoyable) down to the excitement of recording his voice for a 'talkie' and the, well, several whiskies he's imbibed since arriving a few hours earlier. As is customary for them, there had been two with Miss Fisher, and another few before she graced him with her presence. Jack wonders if Mr Butler realises just how much he revealed in offering whisky rather than tea when it was barely passed midday. Until that moment Jack hadn't known that Phryne's belated arrival was due to anything other than the hours kept by the very wealthy, or an especially luxurious bath, or dealing with a delicate (though non-constabulary) case. But by fetching the decanter rather than a teapot, Mr Butler had practically telegraphed that her tardiness was due, in fact, to a man. An actor recently liberated from a loincloth, Jack would bet, were he either a betting man or willing to dwell on the mental image of –

Damn. The buzz is gone, replaced by the undercurrent of anger he's been fighting to keep in check. They were a waltz, she'd said while mending fences after their separation. A waltz, slow and close. So slow, apparently, that she remained free to tango with others.

The abrupt jerk of his hand that accompanies these thoughts sets it on a collision course with a rose bush growing to the side of the path. A thorn breaks the skin at the base of his thumb and he sucks the wound quickly, before any blood can stain the cuff of his white shirt. He is inspecting the cut when he runs headlong into Jane, recently returned from both her European tour and school day.

"Jane!" he exclaims, then recovers. "My apologies. I was..." He trails off, knowing he can't say, "I was so distracted by the thought of your adoptive mother (and the woman I love) in bed with another man that I ran into this rose bush" but being unable to compress his feelings sufficiently to say simply, "I wasn't watching where I was going."

With canniness earned from years on the street and her time with Phryne, Jane understands the shape of things regardless. She'd watched the actor arrive late last night from her bedroom window, while sneakily reading 'just one more page' of her latest novel. And Jack's feelings for Phryne have been obvious to everybody but the illustrious Miss Fisher for months.

"That's all right, Inspector," Jane answers. "I wasn't really watching where I was going either."

She knows from the dark expression on his face that he isn't really listening. And with a little impropriety gained from conversing with continental boys, says boldly, "She'll come around, you know."

Jane's unexpected words pull Jack back into the present. He, of course, is always the very picture of propriety. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Jane," he says with the manufactured certainty of an interrogator.

Jane shrugs. "If you say so. But remember – Miss Phryne is a woman who claims to have no interest in children, yet is a perfect mother to me. So when she says that she's not interested in love..."

She leaves the sentence hanging as she continues to the door.

And Jack feels some of his buzz return.

Fin.

Thanks to Love to read a book, peanuts, Silverancy, KK, Tempe4Booth, Thymelady and guests for their reviews of my previous (and first Miss Fisher) fic, A Wedding Anniversary. Your enthusiasm has encouraged this fic; reviews of it may encourage yet more ;)