Ripper Street/Jack's Alley

[thegentlemanthug]

Bennet Drake isn't as young as he used to be.

When he was no more than a boy, but wore the uniform of a man, Drake could outmatch any private in his unit in a sprint or in the ring. While he's still got his boxing fists, his legs aren't up to scratch and that's why their suspect is getting away.

The Inspector took the right fork when Drake took the left, and their maverick doctor with a gun is somewhere nearby. And while Drake thinks Homer Jackson is a law unto himself that no self-respecting copper would touch with a barge pole, he's grateful for another man on their side this night.

Whitechapel is cloaked in fog and Drake is running blind.

Right into the lad he's chasing.

One minute later, he's on the ground. He doesn't remember the fall, as he watches the lad disappear into the fog.

But his hand is clasped tightly to his side and, when he lifts it away, his palm is red.

Comments

[thirstforvice]

"Kind of you to think so highly of me," Jackson grins, though he doubts the royalty will be knocking on his door any time soon. Not for any good reason, anyway.

"You should sleep."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake's still holding Jackson's wrist. It's warm under his freezing hand, and he's strangely reluctant for the doctor to leave. He remembers the last time he had laudanum, and the nightmares that followed him into the darkness. He had no wish to wake those shadows tonight - not alone, in the police station.

"Not tired," he lies, his eyelids drooping.

[thirstforvice]

"For a Sergeant, you're a terrible liar," Jackson tells him, making himself comfortable as he realises that his wrist isn't going to be given back to him any time soon.

[thegentlemanthug]

"M'the most honest bloke in the town," Drake says, smiling. "It's my wholesome upbringing and the way I go easy on the crooks."

[thirstforvice]

"Wholesome, sure," Jackson continues to talk, if only to provide some sort of comfort, his bedside manner well and truly in play. No matter their professional relationship, he knows as a doctor that the Sergeant needs to rest. If talking to him's the only thing that's going to make him do as he's told, then so be it.

[thegentlemanthug]

"'Bout as wholesome as yours, I'd say," Drake mumbles, his eyes falling closed and staying shut. His grip loosens on Jackson's wrist.

"We've more in common...than you'd think."

[thirstforvice]

"Oh, really?" Jackson doubts that, somehow.

"You can explain why, some time."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake drifts off before he can reply, his head thick like syrup.

But it isn't dark and quiet for long, a red burning welling up behind his eyes, the familiar drums beginning their tattoo...

He is in Egypt and he is afraid.

Still drunk on victory, they had been caught sleeping. But soon Kassassin is a bloodbath, and it is all Drake can do to stay alive.

He runs through the field, looking for an enemy and hoping not to find one. In his heart, he is a coward. His left arm is dead, the shoulder forced out of joint by the man who tried to slit his throat. But Drake's bayonet ripped apart his chest before the man could finish him, and so he lives. Alone.

Drake sees his commander - dead. His best friend, dying. He cannot help them. He is running.

He hears the refrain in his ears: coward coward coward deserter deserter.

Then he falls.

Drake falls into the canal, the waters red as Moses' Nile. And he cannot fight anymore, the water pulling at his limbs, dragging him down into the bloody depths.

He is drowning. He is dying.

It is what he deserves.

...

Drake chokes. He rockets upright, struggling to breathe. He coughs up the water of the river, red and red again, desperate and wild-eyed.

And then he realises he's not alone.

[thirstforvice]

Jackson has been watching his patient sleep, less confident when no one is watching him, needing to be sure that nothing adverse happens throughout the night. And so, when Drake starts to shift and stir, and suddenly lurch upright, he's ready to catch him and hold him close before he tears at his stitches.

"Breathe," he suggests, too slow to retrieve a basin for the blood that the Sergeant's bringing up. "Nothing to worry about."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake is too weak to resist, to push away this unexpected source of comfort, so he breathes and waits for the coughing to stop.

But the images aren't so easily pushed aside and his heart is hammering in his chest, his eyes darting around the room, looking for threats.

[thirstforvice]

"You were dreaming," Jackson reassures him, letting him go when the coughing has stopped, coming back with a cloth to wipe at the Sergeant's face.

"That's all."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake holds himself up with his right arm, finding it difficult to focus.

"Not just dreaming," he mumbles. "Remembering."

[thirstforvice]

"Regardless, darling, it's not happening now. Nothing's gonna hurt you here. Well, 'cept for me, that is." Jackson gives Drake his best grin, pushing his back down onto the cot bed.

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake shakes his head, trying to make Jackson understand.

"It's you should be afraid. Of me. I've...done things."

[thirstforvice]

"Afraid of you?" Jackson can't help but laugh.

"Trust me, right now? I could stand on the other side of the room and be quite safe, even in your vilest temper."

[thegentlemanthug]

"And I could not protect you," Drake rambles on, only half-hearing Jackson's words.

"I could never protect them. Everybody's dead."

[thirstforvice]

"Protect me?" Jackson's eyebrows raise.

"I don't need no protecting, Sergeant."

[thegentlemanthug]

"That's what I'm good for. Fighting."

Drake looks down at his hands. They're shaking.

"If ain't strong, I'm no good to anyone. The Inspector. You."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson rests his hands over Drake's trembling ones, holding them firm and warm.

"You'll be back on your feet in no time, I guarantee it."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake looks up into Jackson's eyes, his own filled with pain.

"Don't matter. I'm still a coward."

[thirstforvice]

"You're being ridiculous," Jackson shakes his head, moving in closer.

"I had to stop you running after that crook with your guts hanging out of you, remember?"

[thegentlemanthug]

Against all odds, Jackson isn't running away. He isn't looking at him in revulsion and hatred.

Drake has to make him understand.

"When the going gets tough, I run. You can't trust me."

[thirstforvice]

"I'll believe it when I see it," Jackson replies and, because it seems the appropriate thing to do, leans in closer still.

"You've always been a professional, to my eyes. Even if you're a grouch of one." And with that, he kisses the Sergeant. He can't think of anything more reassuring than that.

[thegentlemanthug]

For a moment, Drake is startled.

And then repulsed.

He grabs Jackson's shirt and shoves him away, as hard as he can.

"You're...one of them."

[thirstforvice]

"I'm not one of anything!" Jackson frowns, annoyed that Drake's reacted so badly.

"What does it matter, anyway?"