A/N – I was serious in the summary; if you haven't seen S3 and don't want spoilers of any kind, turn back NOW. For the rest, I confess that I didn't have high hopes for Bennet and Rose, as Warlow et al haven't exactly been kind to them in the past. (I basically held my breath from Ep 3 on.) But since they got their happily ever after, my plot bunnies have hatched. (So rusty at the writing thing right now – gah!) This piece isn't kid friendly but is by no means R rated either; big spoilers for "Ashes and Diamonds" and everything before.

Standard disclaimers apply; i.e. please don't sue. I don't own these characters and make no claim on them. I merely borrowed them and their pivotal scene for a bit and then put everything back on the shelf when I finished. I also borrowed the Lifehouse lyrics again because they fit these two so well.

Love this piece? Let me know. Hate it? Don't throw stuff, okay? Onward!


If we can make it through this storm
And become who we were before
Promise me we'll never look back
The worst is far behind us now
We'll make it out of here somehow
Meet me in the aftermath
Oh, meet me in the aftermath
"Aftermath," Lifehouse


You shouldn't be here, Rose. A woman who's worked as hard as you to get from where you once were to where you now dwell has no business putting everything at risk to be in the wrong place at the wrong time doing what is likely the exact wrong thing.

Sure you've always been a risk-taker, but this place is far from the bright lights of Blewett's and farther still from the uptown home in which you currently reside – and if you're seen by anyone, the fallout from this visit could be catastrophic. One second of recognition, one whispered word out of school, and you'll be right back where you started (or worse). And in this town, worse is… well, worse.

This isn't safe, Rose.

This isn't like the last time you showed up at his door unannounced. No Pinkertons bark at your heels, no lives are in danger, and you are by no means in need of refuge. The last time you knocked on his door, it was because he was the only flesh and blood hero you knew. Tonight the situation is different, however. Tonight you've come to…

To what? To visit? To deliver the food that rapidly cools in your hands?

He missed the end of your song tonight – have you come to perform the final verse?

Or is there something else, Rose? Will you attempt to save him from the dark cloud that swirls over him? He wears weariness like a dark mantle about his shoulders – always has, in many ways – and yet somehow the suffering you saw on his face this morning was different. It was deeper somehow – a new turmoil born of new responsibility and expectation.

Your well-practiced concern for him was born anew.

Did you ever really stop worrying, though? For four years, though you haven't had a word from him or heard a word about him, you've kept thoughts of him close. Until the day of the train crash, the last image you had of him in your mind was of a bruised and battered man seated across from you at the opposite end of a bench, a cigarette in one hand and a chipped coffee cup in the other. Even then you recognized the shadow behind his gaze and feared it might pull him into its depths.

You asked him to come and hear you sing back then, if only in the vague hope that maybe music could lift his spirit, could buoy him up before the wave crashed down.

Instead he vanished to Manchester.

If it were still four years ago and you'd only just sat beside him on that bench, you wouldn't have hesitated to march right over and inquire about his well-being, what with Mr. Reid vanished and the official authority over Leman Street transferred to the already stooped shoulders of one Inspector Bennet Drake.

But this is now and you did hesitate. You hesitated in very much the same manner that you did before knocking on his door a mere moment ago. This morning he came to the theatre to investigate a murder and, out of fear or awkwardness or some other emotion you haven't quite put a name to, you held back to wait in the shadows until he departed.

Unfortunately, your indecision left the assessment of his condition to Captain Jackson – which meant that your anxious inquiry was met with caddish flippancy and the man's exasperatingly American way of treating gravely serious matters as though they were trivialities.

"Uneasy lies the head, darlin'," he acquiesced after you scalded him with your gaze. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown."

That the Captain could be both callous and sincere in the same breath only served to increase your concern for Bennet and your heart clenched at the truth of his words.

But to be honest, your concern for Bennet didn't begin only this morning. In fact, since your surprise encounter with him in the aftermath of the train crash, you've found yourself thinking a lot about the past – about the first day you met and he saved you from the grip of death; about the day he proposed and you rejected him for fear that, to accept him would be to settle for less than you deserved from life. You've recalled the way it felt when you learned he'd married Bella – the knots that filled the pit of your stomach, the sense of losing something irreplaceable that you hadn't realized was so important.

There's another memory you've replayed recently as well – the day that Bennet himself would have been lost to Bella's weakness if you hadn't come to his rescue with a fire poker. Lately you've thought about that a lot too and come to realize that, beyond friendship - perhaps even beyond something as simple as love - you and Bennet have been bound together ever since that first inauspicious encounter.

That's why you haven't been able to shake your concern for him in the last four years – that and the fact that things were left unfinished between you when he left for Manchester. Tonight he didn't even stay to hear the end of your song. It's worth wondering if that's why you're really here tonight, Rose. Do you seek closure at last?

The door opens at last to reveal a Bennet who is visibly surprised to see you and you greet him despite your tongue's best efforts to choke on the words. It's been four years since the pair of you shared more than just superficial conversation so the situation does not immediately improve once inside, as you and Bennet are both at a loss for both words and manners.

Four years ago, the dialogue came more easily to your lips – or perhaps it wasn't so much dialogue as declaration. Four years ago, you were angry and uncertain and the words bubbled up and spilled over without a second thought. But at least you knew what you wanted to say.

What do you want to say now, Rose?

You will need to speak first if you wish for conversation because, true to his taciturn nature, Bennet has little to say beyond a flustered protestation your fiancé won't approve of your being in his flat.

"Mr. Morton is not my keeper," you tell him curtly, the shaking of your hands hidden in the paper wrapped around the chop. (Odd that stage fright should strike you here, of all places.)

"He's your intended, Rose," he responds and you bristle.

He's right, you are indeeda betrothed woman. Edgar Morton is kind and reputable and he's been good to you – probably better than you deserve considering he knows the multitude of your past sins, has seen the full spectrum of your sometimes rough edges, and loves you anyway.

You can take the girl out of Whitechapel, but you can't take the Whitechapel out of the girl.

Edgar Morton has given you everything you ever thought you wanted – a career on the stage, an opulent home, and the promise of a comfortable and carefree existence to come. In his own way, he, like Bennet, has also been your rescuer – it was he who saved you from the obscurity of being a chorus girl; he likewise saved you from the perils of music hall stardom (the drinking, the dapper dandies who would use you up then cast you aside); he even saved you from living in a shabby ladies' boarding house by putting you up in the elegant residence he shares with his sister.

As saviors go, however, he's desperately dull.

In all the time you've known him, Edgar Morton has rarely made you laugh out loud, never made you blush, and on no occasion has he drawn your ire or invited you to attend an argument. In summary, he is nothing like the stubborn lummox of a man who refuses the meal you ultimately shove at him when you become exasperated by his arguments to the contrary.

"It ain't champagne and lifetimes, Bennet – just eat the bloody food!" you exclaim with such force that it cows him.

In a fleeting flash of pride, you realize that you're probably the only opponent Bennet Drake has ever backed down from. Men have faced him in war, across the boxing ring, and in countless back alley rows and each one has succumbed to his superior strength. Each one has blinked and Bennet has triumphed, with you the lone exception.

The manner with which he gently pries the knife and fork from your fingers before they accidentally pierce his midsection indicates that he recognizes the humor but is loathe to acknowledge it. Instead, he sits with a sigh in the chair he has cleared of its laundry pile and you perch opposite him on the corner of the bed. That the flat is somewhat in disarray is a warning sign that he isn't well, for he is a military man and fastidious about his quarters.

He picks at the food and your nerves jangle until you can't stand the silence and speak: "I don't know if I should congratulate you - the promotion..."

His eyes cloud. "I've not yet accepted."

Four years have passed and yet his demeanor pulls you back to the dark days before he left Whitechapel. Bella was newly buried, Inspector Jedidiah Shine of K Division loomed like a demon over the hard-working men of Bennet's beloved H Division, and the two of you were at odds in a way you'd never experienced before.

"I know he was… is your friend…" Stop it, Rose. The last thing you should do right now is pick at the scab on Bennet's most recent wound. Above all, you have always claimed to be a friend too and now you must act as such.

But an obvious question hangs in the air, so you present it: "What better man to keep Whitechapel safe?"

"So people keep asking," comes his emotionless response.

"And what does that tell you?" you counter. Frustrating, heart-breaking, wonderful man!

His station is recently elevated – no longer Sergeant, now Inspector Drake – and he has new suits and shirts that befit the change, but the blue eyes are still tormented when they rest upon your face.

Can he so easily forget that it was he who felled Arthur Donaldson with a sword so that you might live? It's the very first image you have of him in your mind's eye – a heroic knight hell bent on saving you from certain doom.

Does he disremember that he was also the one who freed you from the bonds of vile Victor Trumper? Trumper was to sell you to the highest bidder in South America – how could Bennet forget that you cried all of your relief at being rescued into his shoulder?

And how can he not recall that it was he who told you to be brave and leave Miss Susan's in the first place? Only because the words came from his lips did you believe that a new life was possible and dare to attempt it.

Bennet Drake is the one responsible for the dreams you have achieved, Rose – he's the one who showed you to the path that you now walk. How can he not see that?

You find understanding when he inhales slowly and begins to speak. As his thoughts pour forth – a trickle first, then a flood that uses more words than you've ever heard him utter at one time – Bennet Drake himself falls open before you like one of his beloved books. Within his pages you see that, before you arrived tonight, he was held captive by his own dark thoughts in these cramped and shadowy quarters. It's only with your arrival that he's found a way to release himself from their torment.

Your heart clenches again.

How loudly the fears must have rung in his ears and how heavily they must have weighed upon him! With whom would they have been shared if you had not come? Who would have provided rescue from the anguish? Bennet is drowning in his own fears and the weight of other people's lofty expectations and the only one close enough to throw a lifeline to him is you.

Toss the rope, Rose. Save him the way he twice saved you.

He sighs and says, "I have nothing to give to Whitechapel, Rose – and Whitechapel has nothing to give to no man" - fatalistic words which injure you far more than any physical blow ever could.

Nothing? He has nothing?

You can think of no one who has fought harder on the side of right to make sure that innocent people are kept from harm. You've seen the depths of suffering to which he was willing to subject his own body so that others might thrive and he can now sit before you and call his heroism nothing?

Words of protest spring to your lips and you fall on your knees so that they rise to his ears in prayer: "You are wrong. There is something good and precious here which is not broken, which cannot be."

Your meaning doesn't entirely register in your own mind until you hear the words that hang in the air between you, but realization comes swiftly and you see in the watery blue eyes that he comprehends as well.

The inherent danger of words is that they cannot be unspoken, Rose. Once uttered, they do not vanish into oblivion but instead reside in the ears and hearts of those who hear them. Words have the power to change lives and if you continue on the path traced by the words you've just released, your own will turn from its trajectory.

Is that what you want?

The man who put you on the path in the first place encourages you to stay your current course: "I would see you kept safe from the sad havoc of this world."

You understand full well that "safe," in this case, refers to none other than the esteemed Edgar Morton. He is good man, smart and kind. He is always perfectly combed and pressed, his shoes never lack a shine, and his manners are properly elegant. He does not brawl with other men or dare raise his voice to argue with a woman about propriety or anything else. What's more, Edgar Morton loves you and has demonstrated that love by promising to make the rest of your life easy – a commitment that he is certain to fulfill. After all, he's never been trampled on by the world, never seen his dreams dashed or failed to accomplish anything he's attempted. Edgar Morton lives a good life and has no reason to believe that he will not continue to do so.

Moreover, he wants you, Rose. He's made that quite clear. But that's just it:

He wants you, but does he need you?

Will his days at the theatre or at his club alter from their regular routine if you are no longer by his side?

Will his business dealings in town and tenant dealings in the country change?

With a wide circle of family, friends and associates, will Edgar Morton lack for people to share stories and thoughts with in the evenings over a glass of sherry?

Will he ever be in need of rescue?

No. The clear and simple answer is that Edgar Morton's life will continue on its chosen course whether you share the journey or not. He does not need a champion; he merely seeks a companion and he has chosen you to fill the role.

The man who sits before you and wrings his hands in frustration has no such ally; he has experienced no such ease. He's fought to survive; he's fought to save the weak, fought to uphold the law when others would conspire to break it, and he's even fought with you when he's thought you to be in the wrong. He's a good man – the best of men, the girls at Susan's used to say - and on a cold gray morning four years ago, you even told him so.

But Bennet does not believe in himself the way that you do; he never has. He believes the ultimate safety for you requires that you remain absent from him and he pushes himself back as far as the chair will allow to declare it:

"I would not bring my ruin upon you."

You've always been a risk-taker, Rose. You've proven that countless times over. But despite the danger involved in your coming here – the detriment to your career, to your relationship with Edgar, to everything you've scraped to achieve – you don't feel fear. Instead, you have a sense of purpose, of duty, and of being in the right place at the right time doing the exact right thing.

And what's more, you finally know what to say:

"You do not bring ruin!" The words rip fromf you, your earlier hesitation banished for good. "You bring hope. You are naught but hope and life. You saved me - first time I ever laid eyes on you. That's who you are to me - who you'll always be."

Always.

If you live for a century, the Bennet Drake who lives in your mind's eye will ever be the one you met on that first cold and clear morning - the sword-wielding knight who slayed the dragon Arthur Donaldson and carried you tenderly back to safety. You couldn't walk, could barely breathe, and so he folded you gently into his overcoat, its lapels rough against your cheek, the comforting scents of soot and cigarette smoke filling your nostrils as you sank into its warm, protective embrace.

"I thought at last I was safe again," you mumbled as he laid you on Jackson's chaise.

"It is – it is safe now," he insisted and you attempted to reach for him, to place a grateful hand on his heart, but unconsciousness claimed you first and your hand fell limply aside.

Tonight when you reach for him, you don't miss.

Your mouth collides with his and the force of the kiss takes you both by such surprise that you pull back quickly, gulping air. But any danger you might have perceived has passed because he's caught the lifeline you threw and holds fast. In the space of a breath, mouths and bodies collide. He tastes of cigarettes and whiskey and his arms wrapped around you harken you back to the security of the first day, the day he carried you back to Tenter Street.

It is safe now.

Never in your life have you felt as protected as you do in this place with this man on this night. He is once and forever your savior and will allow no harm come to you, just as you will allow none to come to him. The world will have to come through you first should it wish to try and you're lethal with a fire poker, Rose.

Your new life lacked for fight, didn't it? There was no sense of purpose, no sense of being needed by someone. There's been no one to argue with, no one to worry about in the easy Edgar Morton days. It's all been proper, elegant, and utterly passionless.

If there's one thing you and Bennet Drake have never lacked, Rose, it's passion – and with its release, you wonder if it might overwhelm the two of you. Is it possible to drown in passion's depths? After all, despair can pull a person under. Is the opposite true? Might you asphyxiate within this wave of fire and love?

The roar of blood in your ears is thunderous and your heart threatens to beat itself bloody inside your chest until you open your eyes. Your gaze locks with his:

I thought at last I was safe again.

It is – it is safe now.

You surrender to the wave.

FIN