Change of Scenery
Nicole Clevenger (March 2015)
Notes: Another huge gap in our canon, and another not-so-humble attempt by me to fill it. When I realized that we're never actually told how Jackson and Reid first met, I knew I wanted to write it. When I started writing it, the thing shaped itself faster than I could type. A rare forgotten pleasure, something I haven't enjoyed in many years of writing fanfic. I wish we could have had Richard Warlow's version, but this was a great deal of fun.
Set about four months before the start of the show. For Zecklein, who is being very patient about very many things. I make no money, because they do not belong to me.
It is late, the stationhouse unusually quiet. The dark ink on the papers wiggles in the jumping candlelight. Reid puts down the page in his hand and rubs at his stinging eyes. He should go home. He has no desire to do so.
He sits back in his chair. His left side is throbbing; his right hand grips his bicep, as close as he can get to touching the new wound. At this point in the day, even the brush of his shirt against the oversensitive pink skin has evolved from annoyance to something more aptly called pain. He works to breathe slowly, evenly. Checking first to be certain that his office door is shut, Reid allows himself to close his eyes.
Not for long. Exhaustion lies in wait, and it seizes on this rare moment of relaxation to pull him quickly under. Reid's chin sinks toward his chest, but reflex jerks it back upright. The white bolt of fire that rips down his neck and arm has him instantly awake again.
He groans lowly through his teeth, unwilling to give voice to this even in the privacy of his office. To do so seems to lend credence to those who dared to suggest that perhaps it was too soon for him to return here. No matter that they are not present. He has spent the last two months in a stubborn daily struggle to prove them wrong, and he will grant them no foothold. Not even in his mind.
There is no choice. Being here, with these resources, he has the best chance of finding Mathilda. He refuses to stay at the house with Emily, matching in their mourning weeds. He cannot. Not while their little girl is lost out there somewhere. He must do everything he can to bring her home.
The burning in his shoulder gradually fades back into a thudding beat that keeps time with his pulse, a distinct tempo from which he can begin to separate his thoughts. He is wary yet of any motion that may disturb the fragile balance; Reid shifts only his eyes, seeking a distraction in the mess of his desk. They alight, as they so often do, on the map of the waterways. Half covered by a dozen other things. But never entirely buried.
His memory spins an elaboration from the corner of paper he can actually see, automatically tracing the currents he has studied so many times. Reid blinks to shatter the growing image; it continues to build behind his eyelids. A familiar taste, this obsession, and he is self-aware enough to acknowledge how similar it feels to the manhunt of months before. How easily that unfulfilled focus has channeled itself into this new search.
The knowledge changes nothing. And the punishing drive can only aid him in his mission here.
The point is fast approaching when even he cannot deny his need for rest, but sleep promises little else than nightmares and wasted time. If he wishes to avoid it, he will need help in the form of more caffeine. The liquid in the cup on the desk is cold. Another groan escapes him with the realization that he will need to go downstairs.
Nothing for it but to go then. A few more deliberate breaths, as he steels himself against what's coming; he uses the stability of the desk to push himself up, to keep himself there as the room rocks around him. Accustomed to this routine, Reid rides out the spike of protest from his body at the change in position.
It eases soon enough. He can feel the fresh sweat on the back of his bowed neck.
For a few moments even this modicum of relief seems a blessing and Reid straightens, attempting to rearrange his expression into something with less stricken lines. He is grateful for the hour. Fewer people around for whom he will have to enact this performance. It is a mask shaped with cracks, an effort exponentially more tiring as he travels the length of a day.
He makes it to the door before the vertigo takes him again; Reid has no option but to freeze where he is, the knob still twisted tight in his hand. Cursing this aggravating weakness, he forces his fingers to let go. Takes a blind step sideways until his good shoulder finds the wall.
He has no idea of how long he stands slumped there, but the first thing of which Reid becomes aware is that the door is ajar and that the faint breeze is quite pleasant on his face. The second thing is the shouting. It originates from somewhere downstairs.
He cannot really make out the intent, but someone is certainly insistent. One of the drunks rounded up this night, no doubt, complaining about their state of affairs. Reid sighs. He has even less of a desire to go down there now. But he has already battled the hassle of getting this far, and it seems silly not to make the rest of the trek. His balance mostly restored, he turns his attentions to the infernal stairs.
He has come to loathe these steps with a passion, this staircase which only months ago he traversed endlessly without a second thought. They loom so treacherous since the accident, biding their time for moments like these when pain has worn him down and his focus threatens to slip. Even if he holds his footing, each step batters abused tendons, joints, with the jarring reverberations that run from heel to head. An unfortunate coincidence it was now that he was chosen to take over Fred Abberline's upstairs office.
Reid is halfway down the bloody thing when he remembers that he left his cup in his office. There is no chance he is going back up to get it. He will get a new mug from Artherton's motley collection.
"Can you hear me all the way over there? Because I can surely get louder…"
It takes a moment to place the foreign accent, to connect it to the cell from where it comes. Artherton does not look up from his writing, his entire body looking to be involved in his efforts to ignore the man. Reid is surprised to find him seemingly so genuinely annoyed; with his position as Desk Sergeant, he is well practiced in fielding the taunts and pleadings of their more obnoxious guests. But this American appears to be getting to him. He wonders how long the man has been here.
Hours have passed since Reid last left his office, and when he stops in front of the desk he thinks Artherton glances up a little startled. Perhaps a result of being absorbed in his pretense; Reid doubts the man could have forgotten he was here. Artherton has been a fixture at H-Division since before Reid joined these ranks, and he has never known the sergeant to forget much of anything.
"Inspector," Artherton grumbles as greeting. He sounds a man weary of his lot in life.
"Sergeant." Unable to simply turn his head and look over, Reid shifts his entire body to get a view of the cell's occupants. He leans against the desk, an attempt to make the change in posture appear a casual afterthought. "A difficult prisoner?"
Artherton sends a glare toward the cell. Of the five sots incarcerated within, only one seems aware and mobile. He looks not in their direction, however, but at one of the shapeless lumps of humanity caught in there with him.
"Drunk, sir, and disturbing the peace." Artherton turns back to his books. "Firing his pistol on the street. An American, sir." He says this last as if it were one of the charges.
"A pistol?" This information snaps his head around, and Reid cannot suppress the wince at the sharp pain the motion brings. It matters not – Artherton pays him no attention. It has been less than a month since Reid took over this shop, and he remains uncertain as to whether or not this lack of respect he feels from the man is something that lives only in his imagination. A hesitation before he responds, an expression quickly altered after too much has already been read into it. Reid has little patience for these matters of personnel, another facet of his new job he had not thought about when accepting the promotion.
Artherton produces the weapon, places it on the desk. Reid doesn't bother to pick it up and pretend to examine it. His knowledge of pistols matches his lack of interest. Americans and their guns.
"Who is he?"
"He gives his address as Long Susan's, Inspector. Tenter Street." It is not quite an answer to Reid's question, but it does add another layer of oddity.
"Hey! You're the Inspector? You the man in charge of these gorillas?"
His words thrown angry and slightly slurred, the American now stands at the edge of his cell. It is unclear if his grip around the metal bars is his obvious frustration or his need of the support. Of all the things he has no wish to do this night, Reid abruptly discovers that listening to the rantings of a drunken alien rounds off the very bottom of his list.
"I am."
In his peripheral vision, Artherton seems to relax ever so slightly. Happy, no doubt, that the American has found a new focus.
"You need to teach your boys a lesson in civility. This man needs medical attention."
Reid's eyes follow the jab of his fingertips back to said man, seeing nothing but a heap on the stone floor. He grits his teeth, suppresses a sigh, when he starts to look over to the desk sergeant and again is forced to move his entire body instead. "You disregarded this claim?"
A beat or three before Artherton's head comes up, or maybe it is the discomfort that distorts Reid's sense of passing time. "I checked in," Artherton says. "He'll be all right once he sobers up," the sergeant calls to the American. Now he lowers his voice, an irritated rumble. "Not as certain about you however, Yankee..."
"Look," the man says to Reid, done dealing with Artherton entirely, "I don't know what carnival booth your sergeant won his medical degree from, but he's wrong. This man needs help, and he ain't getting any better the longer we stand around discussing it."
It's frustrated, yes, but his gaze is steady enough and his words strike as eminently rational. A few moments more are spent in study of this stranger; Reid really has no choice but to see for himself. It takes more work than it should to make the push off the desk appear a fluid thing, rather than the awkward motion it feels. It has not been long, but already it seems a distant memory the days when every movement was not a thing to be meticulously planned.
Reid joins the American at the bars of the cell, peering in at the unconscious man in question. He does not look healthy, that much is certain, but the same can honestly be said of the other four. The cluster of alcoholic and other fumes clouding this corner is strong enough to tickle at his nose.
His eyes flick back to the American, pale behind his dark facial hair even in this dim candlelight. "And who are you to declare my sergeant wrong?" Reid asks.
Something shutters in those foreign eyes, a reaction so immediate it can only be reflexive. It does not go unnoticed, this response to so simple a question. Reid files it away, stashing it and the curiosity it evokes. For now he'll take any kind of answer, whole truth or no, that will at least lend itself to his understanding of this situation.
"I have medical training," the American says. "But I can't do anything from in here."
Reid briefly entertains the idea that this is some sort of elaborate jail break, a ridiculous notion when, without a compelling reason to keep them, these men will most likely be released in the morning after they finally have sobered up. But his instincts tell him the Yankee is sincere in this, and he has built his life around trusting in their solidity.
"What is it you say ails him?"
The man scratches the back of his head, glancing to the supposed patient and back again. "Not really sure. He's having problems breathing. It's getting worse. Like I said, Inspector, my resources in here run a bit limited."
Reid rubs at the bridge of his nose. Turns back to Artherton. "Where is Edgars? Archer?" As low of an opinion as he holds of the butchers on the H-Division payroll, perhaps an examination by one of them will be enough to put this whole thing to rest. He once more regrets ever coming down the stairs.
"Edgars left for the day. Off tomorrow – I believe he said something about spending the free time in the City. I'd wager he's already cleared the borough, Inspector."
Only half the query satisfied. Must everything around here be dragged out by centimeters? "And Archer?" Reid prompts.
Artherton scowls. "Haven't seen the man since yesterday, sir."
Probably lying insensible in a gutter, as pissed as the men that they have in this cage. These matters seemed somehow more trivial when they were not under his command.
"Goddammit," the American swears fiercely, suddenly pulling away from the bars to crouch at the other man's side. Reid makes the cumbersome twist back that way. It looks as if the man on the ground is choking.
"Sergeant, the keys." He motions for Artherton to bring them over. Again the hesitation, that possibly invented pause. Impatient, Reid snaps his fingers in the officer's direction. Artherton comes out from behind the desk, crosses the room to meet him with the keys.
Reid tears them from his hand, fumbling one-handed to find the correct one without sparing the breath for a polite apology. The man is definitely choking, though on what Reid has no idea. It's hardly important. Not when, even in this poor light, he looks to be turning slightly blue.
"Call someone," he snarls to his desk sergeant. He resents the length of time it is taking to get this door open, regrets that they appear to have misjudged this situation. Artherton moves off to contact the hospital. Reid finally locates the proper key. The cell door swings open, and he hurries quickly inside.
Two of the other three imprisoned are awake now, but they seem content to remain as far from the drama as they are able. The man on the floor twitches violently under the American's hands, desperately seeking air that he cannot find.
"Assistance is on the way," Reid says, standing uselessly over them. It feels a pointless platitude over the sound of frantic gasping.
"No time," the Yankee says. "Give me your knife."
Reid blinks, the absurdity of the request pulling the flow of circumstances up short. But the American holds out his hand expectantly, demanding to be obeyed, and there's an aura of learned authority about him that compels Reid to do so. Later he will dwell on this sense, incapable of pinning down why it is exactly that he decides to place his faith in this stranger. No matter for how long he mulls it over, he can never say for certain.
Reid reaches into his trouser pocket and finds the switchblade he carries; Artherton expels a noise of protest that he can hear from the other side of the room. He pays no attention, handing the blade to the ostensible criminal that waits in front of him.
The American runs his fingertips over the supine figure's throat, flipping open the blade with his other hand. With a swift, decisive movement that Reid could not have halted if he'd intended to, the man brings the knife down to make an incision in his patient's trachea. Reid's concern instantly morphs into fascination, as he realizes what it is the American is doing.
Tracheotomy. He'd read a paper on the subject, an ancient practice most recently being used in emergencies on the battlefields of America's Civil War. A way to get oxygen to the lungs if the normal passageway was blocked. Despite the energy it consumes, Reid maneuvers himself into a squat beside them to get a better view. Air whistles in and out of the bloody new hole.
The man is no longer gasping; in fact, comparatively he now seems in surprisingly little distress. The American wipes the blade of the knife on the knee of his trousers, folds it closed and hands it back. His eyes are on the man on the ground. Reid takes the knife from him, his own gaze darting between the foreigner and the evidence of this procedure the man has just accomplished.
"Amazing," Reid says, unbothered that his voice sounds so nakedly impressed.
"Huh?" the man asks, his head coming up. Now he shakes off the compliment. "Oh. That was nothing. Just bought him some time, is all."
"Nevertheless. Your credentials, it seems, have been verified."
"Yeah. Lucky him," the American says flatly. They both return to their mutual study of the man sprawled unconscious on the hard floor.
It does not take long before Reid's interest begins to wane in the face of the ache that is growing in his cramping legs; the injury to his chest and shoulder may easily eclipse all others, but it is far from the only healing part of his anatomy. As much as he enjoys this rare opportunity, this crouched position is becoming untenable. He gets unsteadily back to his feet. Exhales slowly, privately relieved when the anticipated dizziness fails to materialize.
"How soon before they get here?" the American asks.
"The hospital is nearby," Reid says.
In the end they are relieved of their charge more quickly than he had expected; the streets are apparently as quiet as the shop this night. Reid tracks their progress as the man is carried out of the front doors on a stretcher, the slit in his throat glistening like paint in the firelight. He absently flexes his left hand in and out of a fist, a pinched numbness spreading through the fingers there. Yet another predictable part of this now too familiar procession. Generally it begins much earlier in the day.
Artherton moves to relock the cell door, Reid again on his proper side. The American watches him from the other, not saying anything. Merely watching. Reid feels as if he is being measured, perhaps reevaluated. There is something intriguing about this foreigner. He suspects there is far more to the man than is readily glimpsed on his surface.
"Come with me," Reid says to him. It is an impulsive decision, and both Artherton and the American seem taken aback. But the man in cell does not need a second invitation; he slips through the door to join them while Artherton is still shaping his first incoherent syllables of complaint.
Reid is tired of arguing with his desk sergeant, even in silence. His head feels trapped in the same vise as his shoulder, and his entire left side pulses hot and swollen. It occurs that he knows not when he last ate. Nor the last time that the thought of food held any appeal. "Prepare the paperwork for our prisoner's transfer to hospital," he tells Artherton, in a tone he hopes seeks no discussion. "I would speak with you," he says to the American, wanting nothing more than to sit down.
He turns to again do battle with the cursed staircase; with the American on his heels, Reid feels obliged to ascend the steps as quickly as he can. He's breathing through clenched teeth by the time he gets to the top. Reid leads the way into his office, fighting to get some control while his back is still to the other man. He should have left him in the cell. Curiosity be damned.
Now that they've made it up here, Reid is certain that he does not wish for the company. He remembers that he never got his tea.
A wash of pure exhaustion, a wave that nearly knocks him over. He staggers as he rounds the desk, catching himself with a hand flat against the papers that cover it. Reid can sense the American's attention on him, the speculative look boring across the room from where the man stands by the door. It brings a prickly irritation, his emotions too close to his skin. Reid sinks carefully into his desk chair. He motions toward the chair opposite, before scrubbing at his eyes.
"Sit," he says, and it comes out more weary – but less terse – than he'd been expecting. The American does so, dropping into the chair. He's all sprawled angles and nonchalance, and when Reid glances up again he finds the man busy in a sweeping examination of the room.
Reid studies the American instead. He tries to focus on anything other than his envy at the ease with which the other man can twist his neck.
There is a bottle in the bottom drawer, a gift left behind by the office's former inhabitant. Reid extracts it and the two glasses. "Doctor…?" he begins, recognizing abruptly that he never asked Artherton this man's name.
The American's head comes back around at the sound of the items coming to rest on the top of the desk. "Uh, it's Captain, actually. Captain Homer Jackson."
"Captain?" Reid uncorks the bottle, pours them both a shot of gin. He has to hold the bottle an awkward distance from the waiting glasses, to keep it from clinking against the rims with the persistent shaking of his hand. "In what service?"
"U.S. Army," Jackson says. Reid wonders for a moment at the speed at which these answers now seem to flow. Because this man has finally found cause to relax, to be truthful? Or because they are so well-rehearsed that, once his story has started to be spun, the thing virtually weaves itself?
The American picks up one of the glasses, drinks the liquor down. Reid leaves the other untouched. "Army… Too young, I think, for the War." The man in front of him cannot be a day over thirty-five at the absolute outset, meaning he may have been as much as twelve when the American Civil War ended. Old enough to have found his way onto the front lines, perhaps, but not to have risen to such a rank.
Jackson shrugs, runs a hand through his hair. "War wasn't all that long ago. Still plenty of battles to be fought."
"Indeed." He reaches for the gin now, sliding it closer. Instead of lifting it, Reid turns the glass back and forth in his fingers. The liquid sloshes in a rhythm to match the motion, a mini whirlpool that sings hypnotic. "Your medical training?" he asks, not looking away from it.
"Lot of years of schooling. More out in the world. You want, I can write you up a resume and we can both get back to our business."
Reid blinks, breaking the spell of the glass in his fingertips. The words are casually spoken, pointed but not angry, and when he glances up Jackson nods to the bottle.
"Unless you're still sharing, that is."
Reid flips his hand in a vague gesture of acquiescence; Jackson helps himself to another belt of gin. "And what business is it that brings you to our city?" Reid asks, pitching his own words just as casual.
The glass hits a snag on its path to the American's lips, a tiny hitch in its movement that could simply be a trick of the flickering light. Jackson takes a drink. Offers another shrug. "Change of scenery."
The macabre details of Ripper's long bloody months had made international news. Despite his defense of these streets, Reid finds it difficult to believe that many would choose them as some kind of a promising alternative. "Here," he says skeptically. "Whitechapel."
"Well if this isn't still Whitechapel," Jackson says, "then I got a damn sight more drunk than I thought."
The man is disarming, and he possesses an obvious intelligence. Combined with the lure of his secrets, it is enough to temporarily distract Reid from how miserable he feels.
"Speaking of which," Reid says. Jackson digs in his pocket until he comes up with a pack of cigarettes; the American seems to occupy himself fully with the task of lighting one, but Reid gets the impression he is totally alert in anticipation of what might be coming next. "Explain to me how it is that you came to be firing a weapon on my streets."
Jackson shifts, exhaling a curling stream of smoke. He lifts his legs to rest his boots on the corner of Reid's desk. "Drunk. Very, very drunk."
Reid arcs an eyebrow at the man, his expression conveying a glowering message that Jackson cannot miss. The boots are returned quickly to the floor.
"Elaborate, Captain. If you would."
Jackson seems uncomfortable, and Reid is having trouble understanding why. Embarrassed, perhaps. Further secrets. He is uncertain how much the mysteries and strange accent are contributing to the sense that this American is like few men he has met. Maybe it is merely that he is so tired, pain and the late hour warping his view of the world.
Jackson pours himself more gin. When the one word explanation finally tumbles from his mouth, it is mumbled and sheepish and almost lost into his glass. "Rats," he says, refusing to meet Reid's eyes.
"Rats," Reid repeats. He wonders if he has dropped the thread of the conversation somewhere, possibly stopped paying attention for a moment. He waits for a clarification, tracking the evasive jumping of Jackson's gaze.
"Yes, Inspector – rats." Definitely embarrassed, Reid thinks, judging by how rapidly he becomes blatantly defensive. "Nasty critters." Jackson drops his cigarette butt to the floor, viciously grinding it under his heel as if he had one of the creatures here. "Happy? A sordid evening of drunken debauchery and wasted ammunition. You may consider my lesson to be well learned."
Reid is still working to process the information sandwiched in between the mood swings. "Rats," he says again.
"Christ," the American growls under his breath, getting up to wander about as much as he can in the small room. Pieces of Ripper lay scattered about this office still; Reid watches as Jackson idly sifts through some of it. Most of the information and evidence has been a month since filed away, but even without recent word the ghost lingers. It seems Reid is forever discovering forgotten scraps these days. Grotesque mementos sneaking out of hiding every time he turns around.
He braces himself for a spate of curious inquiry, that all too common human hunger for the gory details of the suffering of others. There are no questions, only Jackson continuing with his poking around. Reid rubs futilely at his left arm while the man's attention is elsewhere.
If they had known of this American in those months before, could he have aided them in catching their killer? Possibly seen something he and Fred had overlooked through their nearness to the case, a tiny bit of a clue that would have pulled the whole thing together?
No, more than likely he would have ended up labelled suspect, both his foreign status and skill level held against him. Best they had been unaware of him then, if he had been here. Even if he had managed to escape their hunted list, Reid cannot imagine Abberline readily agreeing to bringing an American – potentially helpful or no – into the Leman Street fold.
A spasm from somewhere deep in his shoulder, an ominous twinge. Reid digs his fingers more tightly into his bicep, hoping to offer an exchange of one pain for another to his overstimulated nerve endings.
Losing interest in his explorations, Jackson turns back around. "And what is it you do here, besides controlling our pest population?" Reid asks, his hand falling from his arm to the desk. Without his intention, his fingers transfer their white-knuckled grip instead to its hard wooden edge.
Jackson throws himself into the chair, with enough force to cause the thing to creak under the sudden influx of his weight. He grabs the bottle, fills his glass again. Reid debates the wisdom of having granted a man arrested for drunkenness full access to the pleasure of his liquor.
"Snake oil, various tinctures… that sort of thing," Jackson says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Cure for what ails you."
Were it only that simple, Reid thinks. He'd lost count of how many potions and panacea had been foisted upon him in the past two months, none working better than any other. Eventually he'd put an end to it all, refusing to pursue such avenues of false promise. Just entertaining the prospect of relief requires an energy that these days he rarely possesses.
"Such skill, and you waste it hawking patented placebos?"
"Man's got to make a living, Inspector."
Is he imagining the potential he sees in this man? Giving him more credit than is his due? Reid finds himself annoyed again, abruptly without patience for this puzzle. He wonders what time it is now. Whether Emily even notices that he has not yet been home.
"You gave my sergeant an address on Tenter Street. You are an acquaintance of Long Susan, the madam there?" It sounds sharp and a little jagged, and Jackson levels a new indecipherable look Reid's way.
"Not exactly."
"Then… what? She is your employer?" He has not heard tell of the woman running male whores out of her house, but despite the uneasy truce that currently exists, the two of them are not exactly confidant. He had not thought of the possibility before, and he cannot help but reexamine the American for a moment through the tint of this lens.
"What? No. My wife. Wife. Me an' Susan are married."
Somehow this is more surprising.
"Ah," Reid says, recalculating. Long Susan had been in residence for two, perhaps three years that they knew of. Longer than Reid himself had overseen these streets. If Jackson had arrived in Whitechapel with her, he had been here for quite some time. It seems almost inconceivable that their paths had not somehow crossed before this point.
"You married, Inspector?" Jackson asks, firing up the tip of another cigarette.
"Yes." Reid swallows, makes a conscious effort to relax the muscles in his jaw. It is a basic question.
"Pretty understanding lady," the American says. "The hours you seem to keep."
Understanding. Reid recalls a brief episode from early in their union, a period of three or four days when he had lain stricken with a fever that had stemmed from unknown cause. The concern, the adoration in Emily's gaze then. So very different from her expression when he'd finally awoke after the wreck.
She had run from him this time. Fled the room rather than remain with him, unable or unwilling to look his way through the tears in her eyes.
"The same to be said for you," Reid says, fighting to divert both the subject and his thoughts. "Your… wife. She does not expect your return tonight?"
"Truth be told, there is little that woman expects of me." This is more of a murmur, something almost subconscious that Reid is not certain he's meant to be privy to.
His shoulder twitches again, an warning that will not be ignored. Reid recognizes the death grip he has on the desk only when it tenses further. He knows what is certainly coming. Soon the entire bloody thing is like to seize up, and he'll consider himself fortunate if he doesn't end up curled a tight ball on the floor.
He must get this American away from here. He has no desire for an audience.
The slight breeze that wafts through the office takes an unexpected shift, a puff of the cigarette smoke drifting over the desk. Reid's ill-timed breath sucks in the lot of it, and he coughs. Once. Twice. Agony flares over muscle and chipped bone.
He can't get enough air. There is not enough air left in the whole of the room.
He struggles to drag oxygen in through his nose, his lips clamped inflexible over the terrible noise that wants to roar out from his throat. He can best this, move through it. His intellect, his will, must be stronger than the complaints of his body.
The mantra does not keep the room from greying out at the edges, from softening and growing dim. Reid squeezes closed his eyes, but the world persists with its sickening swinging.
He cannot say how long before it eases, only that his senses begin to return with the understanding that he is hunched to the left, slumped over the arm of the chair where it digs mercilessly into his side. That his skin is clammy, that he is very cold.
That the American is crouched on the floor in front of him. Staring up with wide and worried eyes.
The fact that he has not gone to summon assistance speaks of not much time having passed; Reid vaguely registers this as he forces his frame into a more dignified position. He still feels extremely lightheaded. But he needs to wipe that expression from the other man's eyes.
"Hey… you with me, Inspector?" Jackson stands as Reid straightens, but he remains uncomfortably close. He may perhaps look a little shaken, and Reid's lips flirt with a wry smirk at the possibility that he could have unintentionally done here what the earlier experience in the cell had not.
The amusement vanishes as quickly as it comes. The pain has not disappeared, and he has no doubt that this lessening of its intensity is merely temporary.
"So what was that?" Jackson asks, ducking his head to try and line up with Reid's gaze. "You all right?"
It strikes a note too familiar, an intimacy this stranger is in no place to voice. The chill he is wrapped in has started to thaw, heat up; with such extensive burns, one of his body's main regulatory systems has been dealt a severe blow. There is rarely any stability to be found anymore in the whims of his fluctuating temperature.
"Yes," Reid lies, the only answer he is willing to give. Mathilda. Emily. The word has never seemed to be further from the truth.
"Okay," Jackson says, taking a step back and perching on the edge of the desk. The American studies him still, and Reid does not fool himself into thinking the man convinced. But he seems content not to delve, and for this, Reid is supremely grateful. He already feels far too exposed in front of this foreigner.
"It is late," Reid grates out, attempting to wrest things back under his control. Reality is slippery at this hour, tenuous with the threat of the lurking pain. He hopes that perhaps the exhaustion will be his ally tonight, granting him a few uninterrupted hours before the aches and nightmares invade his sleep.
"Yeah." Jackson scratches at the scruff shadowing his chin, his fingernails whispering in the stubble. "You lookin' to lock me up again?" he asks calmly, as if inquiring about the time. "'Cause I got no wish to disparage your hospitality here, but I could do with some shut eye."
It seems a touch unfair to lock him up again after this camaraderie, after the aid he has given them this night. No serious offense has been committed, after all. And, despite the amount of gin Reid has personally watched him consume, he somehow appears to be remarkably solid on his feet.
"No," he says, but it floats nearly an inaudible breath. Reid clears his throat, tries for a more reasonable volume. "No, you may go. Give me a moment. I shall escort you downstairs."
The requested moment is aggravatingly necessary; Reid languidly eyes the desk in front of him, plotting the simplest procedure to achieve the goal of standing. He feels wrung out. Limp. Not truly even able to rouse a real irritation at how bloody complex such an everyday movement has become.
He tries to stream his subsequent exhale into something that sounds less of a sigh. Pushes himself laboriously to his feet, unable to make the motion into anything that can be labelled other than an effort. The room dips sideways before righting itself. His new friend Jackson looks decidedly wary.
"Don't worry about it," the American says, straightening from his seat on the desk. A few sheaves of disturbed paper slide off the edge and down onto the floor. He doesn't notice, his attention firmly on Reid. His expression fighting to convey a message that goes deeper than his words. "I can find my way out."
Reid's fingers twitch, resisting the urge to rub at his shoulder, his forehead, his eyes. No matter how much Jackson may intrigue him, no matter what his instincts may say, he is not about to let this stranger roam free around his stationhouse. Regardless of how minimal the distance. "We go together," Reid tells him. "I do not think you charming enough to get by my desk sergeant on your own."
"Suit yourself," Jackson concedes. Nearer to the door, the American exits first. But not before grabbing Reid's untasted gin and tipping it into his mouth. "One for the road," he says, licking his lips.
Reid tries again not to sigh.
He makes it down the stairs without incident, although it is an exercise in concentration that leaves him trembling. Artherton's spirits do not appear at all improved by the sight of the two men descending together. Reid can spare no concern for this. If it is to be dealt with, it will have to be dealt with at a later date.
"The Captain's pistol, Sergeant. If you please." Reid rests his right elbow on the tall desk, the angle enabling him also to subtly hook his fingers around his lapel. A brace, of sorts, though one that does little good. His jaw aches from the pressure of his teeth being crushed against one another.
Predictably, Artherton is reluctant to comply without first a protest. "Inspector?" The inflection implies a thing incomprehensible, as if Reid has seen fit to sprout a second head. "Regulations, sir –"
"Yes, yes." The repetition whips peevish and dismissive, but he does not care. "This man has done us a service. I see no reason we cannot do him one as well. His pistol, Sergeant."
"And my hat," Jackson pipes up. The glare Artherton gives him only feeds the grin taking root on his face.
The confiscated items appear; Jackson tucks the gun away, pulls the hat down onto his head. He gives them a tiny imitation of a bow. "Can't say it's been entirely a pleasure to meet you gentlemen, but the night has certainly been interesting."
"Mmm," Reid responds distractedly. He is already thinking about another trip up those stairs. If he sleeps here tonight, on that cot that Fred had installed during the endless nights of Ripper, at least it will mean not having to battle them again until sometime much later in the morning.
There is no chance to move as he sees Jackson's hand coming his way, a motion barely recognized at the corner of his sight. As if he intends to clasp Reid's shoulder; Reid flinches in automatic anticipation before his brain is able to catch up. But Jackson stops himself before the contact, realizing suddenly the mistake. The expected impact never manifests, and the American smoothly tips his hat to Reid instead.
"Inspector," he says.
He turns toward the doors to go. Turns back just long enough to blow a cheeky kiss to Artherton before he leaves.
Artherton snorts, unimpressed. "You want I should have someone keep an eye on that one, Inspector?" They watch the man's back until the doors close behind him.
"Yes," Reid agrees, though not perhaps for the same reason. "He will be an asset to us in the future, I should think."
So tired. He heads once again for the stairs.
end