"I honestly cannot decide who deserves my ire more," Phryne Fisher lamented as she poured through the door of No. 221B, "that idiot Maddock Martin, or the driver of that damned buick!" Her tone was as black as the usually shiny crop of her hair, the sharpness of the arc in her brow a clear indicator that nothing could resolve the sheer level of put out that had brewed.
Save perhaps a tall glass of something equally strong.
That the offending informant had not only run, but had also made his escape, was but the cherry on top of a fantastic evening - something that was making itself known in vivid description as it spat itself out between red lips. It was to take on Danger herself, then, to challenge this mood in full swing, and it was for that reason that Inspector Jack Robinson hung back a notable distance from the Lady Detective as she made her sweeping entrance and devastating commentary on the whole affair.
His figure lingered strategically near the door as he shut it behind him.
The venting continued as scarf became aggressively untangled from neck, reaching a peak as it rushed up the hill of her temper, "…though I suppose it would hardly be fitting to take it all out on the motorist; far be it from me to heartlessly criticise the blind!"
As this spurt of her anger was spent, it hung rather like the fur fringe of her coat - curiously heavy about her shoulders alongside the rest of her ensemble, sodden as it was with the weight of water from just off the curb of the evening street, and undoubtedly the cause of her disgruntlement. She let out a frustrated rush of breath as she gave both hands - still gloved - a hearty flick to dislodge further unwanted wetness onto Mr Butler's neatly-kept entrance hall floor.
She expected affirmation of her trials, acknowledgement at least, if not hearty agreement. What she got was a strategic clearing of the throat.
It sent a flash of something quickly up her spine.
She turned on him, the vehemence in her blue eyes daring him to allow what she knew he had covered over.
He looked to the water on the floor.
"Jack," she warned him at once.
A twitch of the lip just at the corner. A furrow of the brow in earnest.
"Jack, don't," this time a finger pointed in his direction.
A tell-tale shaking of shoulders beneath his own trench, not without its own casualties, but not nearly so upsetting as muddied silks.
"Don't you dare!" she flared up again, though her anger turned to a disbelieving sort of outrage that anyone might laugh at The Affair of the Curbside Puddle. It became more comical to him by the moment as he finally let loose the flood of mirth which had tried desperately to conceal itself for risk of being the second murder victim in this entanglement.
Phryne took in a steadying breath, and looked set to ensure it became exactly that.
"I'm sorry," he offered as he tried to stop himself and raised his hands in his defence, "it's just - I will never forget your face as he hit the turn - " His laugh cut off his explanation, and Phryne found her moment to cut in.
"I'm glad you think it's funny," she tried to hang onto the seriousness of the moment for her own sake, "but without Mr Martin, we're no closer than we were when we started!"
"You know as well as I do that he'll show up as soon as he realises there's a reward in it for him," Jack countered, now unflappable as he allowed his take on the situation to take its place, his smile spreading itself across clean features and settling into a boyish amusement. The effect it had was most upsetting as Phryne felt herself losing hold of her ground, the flash of her earlier anger striking a different temperature and all but collapsing as she was forced to accept that only her pride was damaged... and maybe her fox fur.
"Excellent," she muttered to keep her line, trying to find something else to be agitated by, "then we've gone on this charming seaside adventure for nothing."
"Oh, I wouldn't say for nothing…" Jack's laugh threatened to revive as he teased her, "it'll make one hell of a story for the boys down the pub. Especially the way you - "
She offered a venomous look in return.
"Well, as long as the boys down the pub are entertained…" she reached up to pull the fillet from her hair, brushing her fingers through it to clear the remaining droplets, and looked up at him with the distinct air of a cat forced to endure mortifying circumstance: her face flushed, her hair tousled.
It was devastating for him in a way entirely other.
His smile waned, and Phryne felt the shift in the air, slipping from joviality into a different intensity. Whatever seriousness she had tried to press, this one settled of its own accord, and before she knew quite what was happening, she felt the cool of that curbside puddle all about her once more, clashing suddenly with the heat of his lips pressed against hers. Within seconds, however, a wash of propriety rivalled the deluge that had come their way earlier, and Jack retreated as though he might be swept from the rocks by this violent and stray breaker. Phryne blinked, took a moment, and prepared to speak before he quite as suddenly returned with a fortified resolve. Her breath swept up with the same urgency, as Jack was forced to admit to himself what he had never dared to allow passed his good sense:
Kissing Phryne Fisher was like kissing life itself.
Her perfume was everywhere at once, even after The Affair, and the chill of her skin against his was a thrilling contrast to the caress of her breath against his face. Her vitality - in passion or anger - was like a living thing, even as she stood still in his arms. His fingers went seemingly to the task she had tried in vain to achieve a moment before, threading through her hair as though to understand the offence it had committed against his senses; how the sight of her standing there, her usual demeanour so wholly disarmed, had unravelled every pretence of control within him.
Finally.
After months of the advancement and retreat of the idle tide, Phryne could not deny the delight that was kissing Jack Robinson in a way that would have worried Aunt P into anaemia. At last they seemed to have escaped the doldrums, and she earnestly hoped that this was the mark of setting sail, in whatever direction that tide might carry them. Her hands, after lingering in the shock of mid-air, reached up to take a hold of both the unexpected moment and the lapels of his coat, as she did what she did best - rode the wave to its peak. His kiss was not unlike the man himself, his lips wearing the subtle coarseness of pragmatism, but giving way beneath to an earnestness that robbed her of any complaint she had earlier had about - what had she been ranting about?
Oh yes, puddles.
Thank Heaven for them.