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He follows her plane until it becomes nothing more than a flashing dot and disappears over the horizon. The shining, metallic beacon shimmers in the distance for a few precious moments before being swallowed by the clear blue vastness of the Australian sky and then - well… then nothing.
Jack Robinson stays leaning against the hood of his motorcar for a few moments, his face upturned and eyes narrowed. The sun is already too radiant, despite the chilly September morning. He wishes it wasn’t so damn bright.
Five minutes later, he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Crime waits for no man, after all. No matter how forlorn and love-sick that man may be.
“Steady on, Jackie lad,” Detective Inspector Jack Robinson mutters to himself and steps on the gas pedal. A busy day at work is what he needs to get his heart out of the misery swamp.
Yes, a good ol’ murder. That’ll do the trick.
He doesn’t get murder, but he certainly gets murder-adjacent.
At about half-past two, Elizabeth McMillan walks into his office with the unceremonious air of a rightful owner and lowers herself into a visitor’s chair.
Jack raises his eyes from the same paragraph he’s been reading for the past thirty minutes and nods in greeting.
“Doctor,” he says, hiding his surprise. This is certainly… unusual.
“Inspector,” she answers, the left corner of her mouth slightly tilting upwards in a handsome smirk. “How was your morning?”
“Sunny,” he retorts instinctively, remembering how the light danced across the sapphire blue on Phryne’s swallow pin as he fastened it to her scarf. “But I think you were already aware of that.”
Dr McMillan’s smile turns almost predatory and somewhat smug; Jack can’t help but wonder if this is just how the woman smiles when she’s pleased with something.
“How very astute of you, Inspector.”
“It comes with the job,” he shrugs and leans backwards in his seat, crossing his fingers over his stomach. “Now, what may I do for you, doctor? I assume that this is not a professional visit…?”
She doesn’t answer instantly and opts to fiddle with nonexistent lint on her trousers, instead. After a few moments of aimless picking and brushing, she clears her throat with considerably less smug confidence than she exhibited before.
“She’s really gone, isn’t she?”
Jack nods, rolling his lips. “She is,” and after a moment, he adds, “but she’ll be back.”
The doctor huffs and smiles, but it’s bittersweet and melancholy, and Jack can’t help but feel the kinship with a fellow brother-in-arms, so to speak.
“Of course, she will; she’s goddamn Phryne Fisher!”
He smiles at the slightly put-upon cheer in the doctor’s tone and - after very short inner deliberation - rises from his seat to get the bottle of spirits he always keeps at his office. Elizabeth McMillan follows his movement with some puzzlement.
“May I offer you a drink, Doctor?” Jack asks as he sinks in his chair and tilts the bottle first to one tumbler, then the second without waiting for an affirmative reply. “In honour of a certain aviatrix?”
Dr MacMillan arches her eyebrows in a way that can only be described as ‘pleasantly surprised’ and smiles with more delight than sarcasm. He must have somehow scored some good points with the woman.
“Don’t mind if I do, Inspector,” she nods, reaching over the edge of the desk to pick up her glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”
They drink in companionable silence.
It becomes a ‘thing’ between them.
At first, they decide to meet every week - usually on Thursdays and mostly at his office - for updates and a drink. This decision holds for about a month until they both realise that one drink usually turns into more than the appropriate amount for an afternoon at the office, and the meetings are relocated to Jack’s house, instead. The new arrangement works seamlessly for about a fortnight, but then Doctor MacMillan brings a particularly fine bottle of whiskey to one of their meetings, and the two partake a little too much of it.
Which is exactly how they find themself in Phryne’s parlour at nine o’clock on a Thursday night - drunk, sad, and being served sandwiches and cocktails by a very amused Mr Butler.
Doctor MacMillan - but, no, she’s Mac to him now. She’s Mac, and he’s Jack, because this is what happens when you drink your shared sorrows away and form a strong camaraderie around the affection you both hold for a certain aviatrix - Mac raises her glass in a toasting gesture, drink sloshing about dangerously and threatening to spill.
“To Phryne Fisher and her lovely home!” She cries, emptying the drink in one go.
Jack follows suit and closes his eyes; he can feel the room spinning pleasantly, like in a waltz. He wouldn’t mind a waltz now. Slow and close, slow and -
“Jack?”
“Mhm?” he hums in reply, his mind wondering. The room is warm, the light is soft, and he feels like he can finally have a good night’s sleep in ages. He wonders if he can just sink into the plush armchair he’s slumped in and never leave again.
“Are you going after her?”
Jack opens his eyes and turns to look at his friend - for that is what she is now, a good and trusty friend - and smiles pleasantly.
“No need,” he says and nearly laughs at the wide-eyed look on his companion’s face. “I received a telegram this morning. From France. She’s coming back, Mac.”
They sit in silence for a few moments, letting it all sink in. Eventually, the good doctor straightens in her seat - or at least attempts to - and reaches for the decanter.
“Well, this calls for another drink,” she declares, pouring two servings with a surprisingly steady hand for such an inebriated person. “Top you up, Inspector?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Doctor,” he nods, reaching over the edge of the little table to pick up his glass. “Don’t mind if I do.”
They drink in companionable silence.