Between Us Now, a whitechapel fanfic

*
BETWEEN US NOW
by saizine

(Title borrowed from Thomas Hardy's 'Between Us Now')

The first thing he's aware of is the cold.

That, and Chandler.

He's never seen him like this before.

Kent doesn't know who pulled him out, or when, or where, only that he's on the bank of the Thames sliding against the mud with Chandler's hands on either side of his face. He can tell it's him, even after all that. Even with the muddied water still in his eyes and his lungs.

'Kent? Kent, can you hear me?'

He can but he can't quite gather the air to say it. All that's there is water, and he's not a sodding fish.

'Miles!'

No, don't call the skipper. He'll never let him hear the end of this. He doesn't need any of them to have more ammunition; he certainly doesn't need Miles to see him trying to heave up his lungs next to a few intrigued seagulls with Chandler's hand on his chest, trying to hold him in place. But lying there feels like giving in, and he's so cold everywhere save for where Chandler's holding onto him, and he can't bloody breathe and he's starting to understand the terror that's lurking at the edge of Chandler's panic.

'We've been onto emergency services,' Miles says, somewhere on the periphery. He's trying to sound calm. 'Ambulance is on its way.'

Chandler's silhouette nods, and he's not doing as well a job of maintaining pretense.

'God, Kent—' Chandler cuts himself off and brushes a thumb along Kent's cheek. 'Emerson.'

'Boss?' That's Mansell, out of breath. Why's he out of bloody breath? It's almost insulting. 'Oh, Christ—'

'Is he—?'

Riley cuts in, from wherever she's stood. 'He's all right.'

'He's not bloody all right, look at the state of him!'

'No,' She pauses as if she's trying to sound soothing. It doesn't really work, 'but he's conscious and that's half the battle.'

Mansell might make a sound that expresses his massive amounts of disbelief but Kent misses it; he's hacking up saltwater faster than he can take in air and it hurts. It feels like breathing's going to leave him black and blue—if he's not blue already. It's cold, it's bloody freezing, and the way Chandler's crouched over him doesn't feel like it bodes well. None of it does.

But he can't panic.

He can't.

(He is.)

(Fuck.)

'Kent, please—shit—'

All he can think is that he's trying, he's trying, please, just wait. Wait a minute.

'It's all right, sir, look—'

One of Chandler's hands shifts to the side of Kent's neck as he coughs up more river water, its warmth almost startling compared to the air on his damp skin. He can't tell if it's him or Chandler who's shaking. Probably him. Does it matter? Probably not. He's struggling anyway.

'Kent?'

(It sounds like pleading.)

He picks up one hand, still bleary and shaking.

'Sir, don't—your suit—'

He lies his dripping hand on one of Chandler's lapels, the grey darkening to a murky mud where he rests his fingers; some part of his mind knows that Chandler should flinch away but instead a hand wraps around his own, gentle as it slips towards his wrist and settles on his pulse. Kent can feel the beat through his body, thready and thudding all at once; he can feel it against Chandler's shaking hand on his neck, against Chandler's fingers on his wrist and Chandler's palm against his palm.

All it serves to do is remind him that he's alive and he hurts.

'Emerson, breathe, please—'

'It's not him who's not breathing, boss!'

'Don't—'

Chandler must shrug Miles' well-meaning hand off his shoulder; the movement's violent enough to jostle Kent where he lies, coughs rattling through his ribs as he tries to expel all the water he ingested.

Even so, he splutters through the liquid, takes in a rattling breath as much as he can manage. 'Sir, don't, I'm fine—'

(It's a feeble attempt at an excuse. It's never going to work. None of his excuses ever have.)

Mansell manages a barking laugh from somewhere behind Kent's head, although it's more than a little tinged with panic. 'Look, even he's telling you to calm down.'

'Now isn't the time,' Chandler snaps, although something in his throat hitches. 'He could have—'

He breaks off as Kent uses a surge of adrenaline to grasp at his forearm below the elbow, fingers cold and wet and muddy against Chandler's sleeve.

'Don't say it, sir.' He coughs again, almost heaves. 'Don't remind me.'

'God, even now he finds the energy to be ghoulish.'

'Miles!'

There's a desperation in Chandler's voice that scares Kent. He's never heard him like that before. Never. That frightens him more than the water. There's a vague impulse to try and do something to fix it, to stop him sounding like that, but the best he can do is scrabble at Chandler's arm. He can't keep his grip; he's shaking too much for that.

Riley appears near his head, threads a hand through Kent's hair. It feels like slime; he shudders, shakes.

'Shh, you're fine,' she says, murmuring. Her voice is solid, comforting, even if she's lying. Everything Chandler isn't at this moment, even when he should be. When Kent would have expected him to be. 'You're all right.'

Chandler makes a strangled, disbelieving sound; his hand's still around Kent's wrist, his palm against his chest.

'Paramedics are on their way. You'll survive, love. Just stay as calm and as still as you can, all right?'

Kent wants to say thank you, something, anything, but all that happens is more Thames water bursts across his chin, the back of his throat burning as air and liquid fight it out.

She wipes at his skin with swiping fingers, just as chilled as he is. 'Better out than in.'

'Riley, please—'

Chandler's gone quiet but his touch is still heavy.

'Sir,' she says, and she's trying to hide the fact she's got two fingers on his carotid pulse. She's pandering—shielding. 'He'll be fine.'

'You don't know that.'

Those words are even lower, almost lost on the tidal breeze, and Kent only just catches them. He tries to twist a hand to wrap his fingers around Chandler's wrist but he can't quite seem to feel them.

'It's the best you can do for him now, all right? Just—'

'I know, I know.'

(Chandler sounds like he wishes he didn't. Kent wishes he didn't know what that sounded like.)

'Boss!' Mansell sounds far away, but Kent can't tell if he actually is or that's him fading, struggling. 'Boss, the medics are at the end of the road!'

Chandler ignores them all, just re-adjusts his grip on Kent's wrist. He hushes him but he doesn't sound at all well, too shaky and breathless for that. A moment later he curls a hesitant hand around the back of Kent's shoulder, as if he's wondering what's the best way to gather him to his chest, but his fingers reroute to the side of his jaw as Riley clambers to her feet, monitoring the throbbing pulse. Kent can feel the beat against both their skins; it's almost painful, it's working too hard, Kent can't gather enough breath and he's so, so cold.

It's Miles who peels Chandler's fingers from Kent's wrist when the paramedics arrive.

Even when he's completely dry, Kent's still convinced he feels damp.

The dry heating of the hospital ward doesn't help either, it's just one extreme to another and occasionally Kent thinks he can feel the clumps of mud pressing into his back, stones against his shoulder-blades. The vague and pungent smell of seagulls and sludge. The overwhelming moment when the water was just too heavy, when he couldn't tell what was liquid and what was air—

He can't think about it anymore. Instead he swallows as well as he can, presses one thumb into the palm of his other hand until a nerve somewhere stings and he watches the bustle of the rest of the ward. He can kid himself it's like the station, in a way; a lot of movement, most of it a load of bollocks. Two days ago he'd thought the same thing, until the call. Until the case. It should have just been one in a line of inquiries. They had enough to be dealing with already, but when has that ever stopped the universe from conspiring against them?

Though why Robinson had thought the best course of action was to make a mad dash towards the river still makes no sense. Kent's been sat there, occasionally answering whatever prescribed questions the nurses had to ask him to make sure he was still compos mentis, for God knows how long trying to wrap his head around why, why, they'd gone in the direction of the water in the first place. It made no sense.

It never does with them, though, does it? The criminals aren't the only ones who're mental. They're teetering on the edge just as well.

He'd shrugged the blankets off as soon as he'd stopped shaking. They hadn't smelt right. The nurses had come back and virtually swaddled him again and he'd let them, too tired to be anything but malleable. It makes him feel a bit sick. God, he hates hospitals.

Kent sits and thinks until the layers shift again and he can shove his hands into the pocket of his hoodie—thank God for Riley and the fact she knows he keeps a spare key to his flat taped to the top of the left drawer in his desk. Just in case they need to get in when he's not there. He'd never really expected to need to use it, but that's why it's there. In the event of his death or incapacity. They all think about it, even if they don't admit it. At least this time it means he gets his own clothes. Things that doesn't smell of disinfectant and bleach. Warmer for being his, or so he thinks.

He doesn't care if it's irrational. He's earned the right to a bit of irrationality, as far as he's concerned.

But in the end it's his own bloody fault, his own misstep and his own idiocy, so that doesn't guarantee him anything at all.

Miles appears from around a corner, gruff as ever. Kent would wonder if he still had a head full of Thames water if Skip hadn't been wearing that same stern face. The world wouldn't be right otherwise.

He blurts out the first thought that comes to mind. 'Is the boss all right?'

'Trust that to be the first thing you say.' Miles's smile turns crooked as he approaches. 'Here, I brought you one of them crapuccinos you're so fond of. Don't tell the nurse.'

Kent accepts the drink and cradles the paper cup between his hands. He ignores the lack of an answer to focus on the warmth seeping through his palms, the familiar taste of espresso searing across the river damp that's taken up residence in the back of his mouth. He's beginning to think fondly of the novelty electric blanket Erica had bought him last christmas as a joke bundled in the bottom of his wardrobe.

Miles arranges himself in the rickety visiting chair, scowling as it squeaks. 'How are you feeling?'

'Like shit.'

'Sounds about right.' There's a rusty chuckle and the usual expression. 'We thought you might have been a floater there for a minute.'

'Cheers, skip.'

He tries to seem disparaging, but in all honesty that's exactly what he needs to hear. Someone taking the piss. It makes the scrapes on his hand feel a little more distant, the cut on his forearm a little less deep. Who thought there were things that sharp in the Thames? He knew theoretically, of course, but the throbbing under his sleeve is more insistent than he'd like. He runs his thumb along the line of the bandage; it's hidden by his sleeve but he knows exactly where it is. He knows the feeling already.

'Even Buchan was worried,' Miles continues, frowning. 'Said you could try Thomas Becket, whatever that means.'

Kent huffs out a laugh even though it stings his lungs. 'I don't think I'll be traipsing down to Canterbury in this state.'

'Glad someone knows what he's on about.'

'It's the first time my history GCSE's come in handy.' That's not strictly true, actually, but it's the first time he's got to admit it. Miles doesn't look any more enlightened, though, so Kent unravels his twisted hands and says, 'Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, murdered in the twelfth century. Supposed to have performed miracles—' He pauses for effect, borrowing the technique from Ed himself, '—including curing drownings.'

Miles huffs. 'A load of old bollocks, then.'

'Pretty much.'

Kent smiles then, because it's true, but he still wishes he had as much confidence in that conclusion as Miles does.

'Buchan should take you on as an understudy.'

'I hope not,' Kent says, scoffing with the sort of incredulity that feels familiar.

'Might be all you're fit for after this.' Miles looks him up and down as if he's just erupted in boils, and Kent goes back to feeling as though he wants to hibernate—preferably not here, though. 'I'm sure Chandler would approve.'

Kent fidgets. The words don't mean anything, not really, but it still sends something vaguely uncomfortable down his spine and Miles is only saying it because he knows it does.

'Tell him I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

(It pains him that Miles looks honestly confused.)

'Falling in.'

'For Christ's sake—' A nurse walks past with a stern eye and even Miles's infamous indignation deflates. He turns back to Kent with a quieter version of the same warning once she rounds the corner. 'You don't need to apologise. He won't accept it. I virtually had to hold him back from coming here in the ambulance with you.'

Kent pulls at a loose thread on the cotton jersey; it's easier to look at that than Miles' face. 'He didn't need to do that.'

(He didn't want to do that, did he? Him and his misplaced sense of obligation. False hope.)

'No. That's what I said. What we needed to do was find Robinson.'

'Did you?'

'Emergency services did. Collision at Vauxhall Cross.'

Kent winces.

Miles recognises the unasked question. 'The worst.'

'Shit.'

'You're more eloquent than ever.'

'I think that can be excused given the circumstances, skip.' Kent looks away and traps his fidgeting hands under his thighs. 'Where do we go from here?'

Miles shrugs. 'Nowhere. Robinson was the only lead we had, you know that.'

Kent does know, he knows, and it makes him feel sick. It's his fault, isn't it? He topples into the Thames, he's the bloody distraction, they lose another suspect and it's another black mark on their record. It's only a matter of time now before internal affairs gets involved, he's sure. They're begging to be investigated. The only people that have luck that's this consistently shit are those that don't rely on luck and end up fucking it up themselves. If you want something done properly, do it yourself. And haven't they just?

'Anyway,' Miles continues, not waiting for an answer neither of them need, 'it's been handed over now. There'll be an inquest.'

Of course there will be. His face says as much, and Miles scowls at him for it. He knows what he's thinking. The last one was Morgan's and Chandler hadn't been right for weeks. None of them had been all right.

Kent tries to swallow down the surge of anxiety and dislodges something watery instead.

He splutters, scowls. 'Sorry, still not all come up.'

Miles pulls a face but chuckles. 'It's all right, I've seen worse. I've got kids, ain't I?'

Kent offers him a weak smile. He's still not sure if he likes being lumped in with that lot, but he'll take it if it means he can try and convince himself that coughing up river water is just about as commonplace as croup and the flu. Perhaps it should be. What is it, fourth most common means of death? Not according to their files, but they don't deal in accidents, do they? They're prone to them, though. He's a walking case in point.

'They letting you out of here anytime soon?' Miles asks, amicable though there's a slight push there, too. He's not one to put up with shit, even now.

'Yeah, this evening.' Barring any developments. 'Paperwork, apparently.'

He doesn't mention the nurses frowning at his scars, speaking in low tones at their station. Nor does he think about the thin slip of a prescription he's folded into his pocket, the one for painkillers he's supposed to fill if it flares up again. None of them need to know about that. He'd rather not know about it, to be honest, but he doesn't have much choice. They've still got hours of observation to go and Kent thinks about it every time someone checks on him. He wants to be left alone but the thought scares him—you can drown above ground, too, it's a twenty-four hour window. He doesn't know what he wants anymore.

Miles seems to notice his crowding thoughts; he's always done that. 'Do you want a lift home?'

'If you don't mind.' Kent sighs. He sort of minds but he's not got many options left. 'It would save me ringing Stuart. Easier all round, really. His boss's a bit of a bastard when it comes to time off.'

'Bit like ours then.'

'Skip.'

'Only joking.' Miles chuckles, shaking his head, and he gets to his feet. 'Cor, you won't hear a word against him, will you?'

'I won't tar him with such a wide brush,' Kent corrects, bristling. 'Even I'll admit he has his shitty moments.'

Miles grins; it's crooked again. 'And he hates those.'

'Skip.'

'All right, all right. But you couldn't expect me to let that one go, eh?'

Kent huffs and shrugs; he should have known, really, but then again so should have Skip. His sense of humour's always been the same, and so has Kent's attitude towards the boss. It must be that that Miles is smiling about as he adjusts the collar on his coat. Kent hasn't noticed before but there are raindrops stuck to his shoulders. Had it been raining, when he'd gone in? He couldn't tell. It had been wet enough anyway, but it would explain the dampness of Chandler's face. Kent hasn't been able to reconcile that with anything yet. He'd just thought he'd imagined it.

Miles fishes his car keys out of a pocket. 'Riley says you're welcome round hers if you want a hot meal without having to make it yourself.'

Kent's stomach churns; he's not sure he wants anything more than toast. 'I think I'll be all right.'

'Suit yourself.' Miles doesn't look convinced, but then again, he never does. 'I'll pop back after the shift.'

He nods; he doesn't need to say thanks for Miles to know he's grateful. He looks it anyway, sat there in a mess of blankets and with half his hands hidden in the sleeve of an ancient hoodie that has probably seen better days.

Miles rests a hand on his shoulder, the same way he'd done when they'd first worked a crime scene together. 'Don't beat yourself up, kid.'

Kent nods again, mouth narrow, and Miles's steps blend into the background noise.

Now he's just got to get through the rest of this observation without thinking himself to death.

Kent switches the heating to full throttle as soon as he's in Miles' car.

'Hang on a minute, the engine's not even on yet!'

He just shrugs.

Miles grumbles something that's undoubtedly disparaging as he gets in, slamming the door a little too hard just like he always does. It winds Chandler up, which is probably why he does it, Kent doesn't know whether he should be smiling at that but he does anyway, for a fleeting moment. The engine growls its way into life and the vents blow cold; there's nothing they can do about it until the machinery warms up and Kent draws his fleece closer around himself. He's tempted to bring his knees up and rest his heels on the edge of the seat, too, but he's passed thirty now and he really shouldn't be doing that in front of his superior officer.

Miles clears his throat. 'The boss says you're not to come in tomorrow. Medical leave.'

'I don't need—'

'I agree with him.'

It's the tone Miles uses when he doesn't want to be argued with. Kent doesn't try, just folds his hands in his lap and pulls the cuffs of his hoodie over his knuckles. He vaguely wonders why Chandler doesn't tell him himself, until he remembers his phone's completely shot and he should probably look into getting another. Something tells him this particular strain of water damage is well out of warranty.

Miles doesn't give up. 'And I'd wager the hospital agrees.'

Kent grunts. It's the best he can say about the situation, because as usual, Miles is right. He's been told under no pretenses that he's to come straight back in if he's got any shortness of breath, any cough, any fever, anything that's out of the ordinary. He's tucked a printout in his back pocket that goes into the long-term observation, the next appointment, the emphasis on the risk of bacterial infection. Three different nurses asked him if he had someone waiting for him at home. He doesn't need them to tell him outright that there's another three days of risk ahead of him, seventy-two sodding hours. That's the watch period. On one of his first cases—he'd only been a DC for about five minutes—they had a bloke who'd keeled over two days after a soaking. He hadn't even made it to A&E.

He shudders and holds a hand up to the vents. The air's blowing warm but he doesn't feel it.

Miles watches him out of the corner of his eye as he feeds his car-parking ticket through the open window and into the machine, but doesn't say anything about it.

Kent lets his palm fall back onto his knee and attempts a long-suffering sigh. 'I suppose you're going to tell me I'm on desk duty for the rest of the week.'

'His nibs will certainly try.' Miles chuckles as they cross the barrier and turn onto the street. 'I don't know if you'll let him.'

His mouth does twitch into a smile at that, but Kent still frowns. 'Is he—?'

'He's all right. Spent about an hour talking himself down in the toilets, though.'

Kent sighs again—honestly, this time. 'Tell him I'm sorry.'

'For what?'

'Skip.' He's trying to sound stern but he suspects it's coming out as petulant. 'Not again.'

'You didn't mean to take a tumble.'

'No, but I did, didn't I?'

He says it to the thin darkness outside the car, the feeble yellow light that barely illuminates the pavements. He doesn't need to look to see Miles smothering another laugh. What he means is that he feels a bloody idiot but Miles will tell him that anyway. Eventually, in one way or another. Probably already has and his Thames-addled brain hasn't noticed. The world outside doesn't give a shit and carries on anyway.

Miles makes another gruff noise as a cyclist veers into their lane. 'Why've you suddenly got apologizing on the brain?'

'He seemed…' Kent trails off, looks for the right word that isn't too suggestive. '…off.'

'You're not kidding.'

Kent doesn't really know what to say to that, so he stares out the window. A man stands at a zebra crossing having an animated argument over his mobile phone, the student (Kent assumes, based on her ULU pullover) stood next to him looks as if she thinks the stranger's lost it. Neither of them have done anything about the drizzle. A woman walks behind them on the pavement, umbrella in hand, and Kent can't decide who he thinks is more irrational. He doesn't know what he'd do, either. The rain's too heavy to ignore and too light to worry about.

'The last time I saw him do anything like that was the last time you were in hospital, kid.'

The thought sends a twinge through him. It's not painful, not yet. Remembering the way Chandler had looked at him when they'd wheeled him away is, though. Kent's always convinced himself he'd made it up, augmented something comforting in his mind to cope. They've seen witnesses do it a hundred and one times. But it had been a close relation of the look Chandler had given him when he'd hobbled out of the office, suspended, and that still brings a lump to his throat. He wills himself not to give any of it away, not even to Skip, but somewhere deep down he knows he already has.

'It's not every day a DI declares war.'

'That was a long time ago.'

(And they'd lost, hadn't they? They're still losing.)

'Maybe to you. You're only about twelve.' Miles grins and Kent does the same. 'I suppose time moves quicker when you've got one foot in the grave.'

'You're not that doddering yet, Skip.'

'Yeah, well, we've all got to slow down sometime.'

Kent can't tell if that's supposed to be some sort of warning or just something he isn't privy to. It could refer to any of them. It's probably a collective warning, one they all need, but there's only one of them that springs to mind. It's always the same with him. He's more bothered about him than his own well-being. He'd be lying to himself if he said that wasn't part of the reason he pushed himself to come back so quickly, after. But look how that turned out.

'He's not…'

He still can't find the right word. He doesn't really know what he means. Chandler's not what? Not doing whatever he did last time, Kent supposes, though he's not even sure if there's been a last time. None of them have fallen into the river before. Mansell's come close a couple of times, pissing about and almost overbalancing, but that usually happened after a couple of pints. None of them have had to be resuscitated on the banks.

'He's not.' Miles sounds confident in the sentiment, and glances towards Kent as he checks the road is clear for a turning. 'You noticed, then?'

Kent mutters, 'Bit difficult not to,' he he wishes it sounds more derisive than it does. It just makes him sound soft.

'You would.'

Kent laughs, and it's almost bitter. 'And you wonder why I'm apologising.'

'You didn't mean to.' Miles is matter-of-fact about it until he spots the opportunity for an off-colour joke. 'Or are you trying to tell me you did?'

'Behave,' Kent says, in his best imitation of Miles' accent, and although it gets a laugh he's still quiet. 'It's always me though, isn't it?'

'You have… tendencies.' Miles returns Kent's skeptical look with something stern and vaguely parental. 'Like we all do. Look at the boss, he's got bloody hundreds.'

'Was that one of them, then?'

It must have been. Kent's never seen Chandler like that, and he's seen him in all sorts of states. Not all of them pretty. He's seen him panic, too, but not… well, not like that. It's the only way Kent can describe what happened: that's new, not like that, never like that. He doesn't really know what about it is different, just the it is, and Chandler's never looked at him like that before. Kent hesitates to call it fear, because that could just be him projecting, but it's probably the closest word he can use. That actually scares him, a bit.

Miles chuckles, because of course he knows what Kent's on about. 'No. You're not going to like me saying it, but that was about you, kid.'

'Yeah, because I fell in the fucking Thames.'

The embarrassment's seeping in now. He'll never be able to live this down.

'Precisely.' Somehow the tick of the indicator punctuates Miles' words. 'You fell in the Thames.'

Kent worries his lip; sometimes he thinks he can still taste the sour water.

'Don't wind me up, Skip.'

There's that smirk again. 'He wouldn't have given a toss if I'd decided on a dip.'

'You know that's not true.' Kent presses on when Miles doesn't acknowledge him. 'He saved your life. He let the Ripper go to save your life.'

'Because he's a good man, although he doesn't believe it.' He gives Kent a chance to disagree, and adopts a validated look when he doesn't. 'He's a good copper, too, but if he's going to react like that and not admit to any of us what it's about then he isn't suitable to be our guv'ner anymore.'

Kent's thoughts skid to a stop. He fights back a splutter. 'I beg your pardon?'

'God, you are turning into him.'

'Skip.'

Kent's relatively sure he's not in the mood for this. It's as if he wants to sleep for the rest of the week but doesn't know where the bedroom is. He's really not got the mental capacity or the resilience to have this argument again. But they've been skirting around it for years, and they can skim over the formalities.

'I mean, it's obvious. He's laid it all out, now.'

'For fuck's sake, skip, either you stop being so bloody vague or you leave it be.'

Miles shoots him a look that suggests he's about to be relegated to traffic.

'If you don't mind me saying, sir.'

Miles turns back to the road ahead of them with a slight nod, and neither of them say anything more until they've come to a halt at the next set of lights.

'You were lucky. One of our lot's boats was close. They pulled you out but it was his nibs who got to you first. I've never seen him make a quicker decision about mud.' Kent must frown because Miles rolls his eyes and says, 'You won out, I mean.'

That doesn't make much sense. Nothing is, though, in this car so Kent just tries to put it down to circumstance. It doesn't really work and he thinks about it anyway, ponders what that means. What it really means because Skip wouldn't say it if he didn't think it didn't have some sort of significance. He doesn't even have to look at Kent to make him understand the gravity of words. Kent stares at the dashboard.

'Even with all his bloody manuals, Riley had to do CPR.' Miles continues, although Kent already knows. She'd told him, when she'd brought his clothes. But that's not what the emphasis he means, is it? The skipper shrugs (as if that's the appropriate thing to do) and switches lanes as if he's not talking about what he's talking about. 'I know for a fact he's done more than a handful of first aid courses and he couldn't remember a bloody thing. That only made him worse, obviously.'

Kent worries his fingers, one of his telltale habits. 'I don't know if I want to know this.'

'Course you do.' Miles sounds confident, and that's something, at the very least. 'It's about time one of you did.'

'You've lost me again.'

'Christ, you're both dense. How do you manage to keep in the job?'

He laughs and it's only a little hollow. 'Sheer dumb luck, apparently.'

'You're not kidding.' Miles grins anyway. 'Apparently you're naturally buoyant.'

'What?'

(That's a segue he wasn't expecting.)

'I was talking to one of the nurses.'

'Doesn't really explain it, but all right.'

'Anyway,' Miles continues, even when Kent shoots him a look that he knows won't stop the sentence (but he's going to try anyway), 'what I mean is I wouldn't waste your time buying his nibs a bottle of wine for his trouble. Completely useless, he was.'

'I wouldn't say that,' Kent mutters, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the thinning fabric.

He tries to focus on thinking that the elastic will probably go soon, that he'll have to go out and buy something more presentable before long rather than of how Chandler's panicked hands on him had actually helped, how the warmth of his leg against his side had drawn his attention far enough away from the cold and the mud and the wet. How he'd tried to wrap his own fingers around Chandler's wrist, tried to hold onto him once the air had started biting at his lungs and he'd honestly thought that they might just burst. It doesn't matter, though, does it? That was desperation, this is now.

Somehow, even while he's warm and safe in Miles' car, a shudder runs through him. Kent shakes his head at nothing, shoving both his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie regardless of whether or not the seatbelt makes it easy.

'You ain't fooling me, kid.'

Kent sighs, resigned. 'I'm not trying to.'

'He is, though.'

'What?'

Miles doesn't take his eyes off the road. 'Trying to.'

Kent wishes he can't see the logic in Miles' argument. Well, perhaps not the logic but definitely the train of thought. He's had too long to think about it himself. But he's also had too long to think about himself—a good two decades dedicated to that—and look at all the good that's done him. Not a shred. Not a bloody ounce. All he knows is that he's been Chandler's in more than assignment for four years and that isn't reciprocal. Can't be reciprocal. It doesn't work that way.

(But they've made a career of bucking trends, haven't that? It all goes to shit in the end but at least they make a show of it.)

He pointedly looks out the window—he can't turn to Miles, not now, not with that face on.

'He doesn't like the drownings.'

The words are quiet, but Kent says it like it's a fact. They both know it's actually a little bit of a question.

'No, he doesn't.' Miles suddenly goes serious, sombre. It's only a subtle shift but it makes Kent turn back to him. 'You didn't drown, though.'

'No.' Kent feels like he did. 'Not quite.'

They go silent again, but the space inside Kent's head feels crowded. He doesn't have any room for punctuation left, let alone words strung together in coherent sentences, and he'd learnt long ago not to try to force it if he doesn't have to. He'll do it anyway, of course, but thinking that he doesn't have to is vaguely comforting.

The indicator ticks as they round another corner; the rain gets heavier, thumps on the roof.

'It was his dad.'

'What?'

'His father.' Miles doesn't look at him. 'He drowned.'

Kent opens his mouth then shuts it again, and turns back to the dripping window. He hadn't known. He still doesn't, really, but it still stuns him. He needs a moment, he needs fresh air, he needs something. It kicks like a sleep twitch, that revelation. That makes it so, so much worse. He's fucked it up royally, now, hasn't he? It all makes so much sense and it's painful and it's his fault. Shit. He couldn't have just stayed away from the railings, he couldn't have just stopped when it was obvious Robinson was more of an endurance runner than he was, he couldn't have just avoided the puddles or just caught the side properly when he tried or just—

If its possible he feels even worse about it now, after following his thoughts down that road, and he runs a hand through his mussed hair. It's not laying right, he couldn't get it to behave at the hospital and he can't now, but it's something to do with his fingers so he can try and convince himself his hands aren't shaking.

'Don't let him fob you off with that.'

'What?'

It doesn't make sense; Kent keeps his hand in his fringe. It doesn't make sense and the light's still on red.

Miles turns to him, face calm. 'Don't let him.'

Kent doesn't know what to say. He's back to thinking that these sentences don't go together, that he must have a concussion after all and he's missing chunks of time but Miles just smirks at his stunned face and shifts gears so they can clear the intersection.

'I—' Kent's got no idea where he's going with this, just that he's trying to reroute. 'I'm not sure this is a good idea, skip—'

Miles's not convinced. 'He needs to realise it just as much as you do.'

They're skipping around the thing they don't say again, and it's looking more and more likely that Miles is going to just come out and say it. He's interrupting him and that's just the beginning, every time, and when Kent looks over at him with an expression that he's sure is pained and retentive Miles' face goes exasperated, disbelieving. They don't say anything but the indicator tells Kent they're pulling over, the road quiet and surprisingly empty; Miles doesn't have to maneuver into a space, he just pulls up alongside the pavement. The houses on the opposite side of the street have warm light hidden behind their curtains, signs of life. Kent can't look at them.

Instead, he pulls at the loose threads where his sleeve meets cuff and says, 'You're imagining things, skip.'

'For Christ's sake—' Miles snaps, scraping through the gears until they're in park, 'it's always been you.'

Kent stares out at the green, past the cast-iron railings and overgrown ivy. 'Don't fob me off with that, skip. I remember when you were throwing birds at him.'

'Yeah, well, I had the wrong end of the stick, didn't I?'

'Not entirely,' Kent replies, voice as dark as he can make it without veering off into disappointment.

There had been one, after all.

Miles leaves the engine running but doesn't move to carry on with the journey. Kent can see the end of his street from where they're sat, though only anyone who lived there could, but it might as well be on the other side of London. Skip's got the expression on his face that says he's not going to let him get out of this anytime soon, and Kent refuses to look at it. He bites at the inside of his cheek instead, twists his fingers together until something in his arm cracks and Miles crooks a brow.

'I'm not talking about this any more, skip.'

'Why not?'

'Because.'

'That's the worst answer to give a copper and you know it.' He does. He does know it. It just begs more questions but he's not going to answer those, either, and Miles knows that. 'Anyway, I don't need you to talk about it. I'm going to anyway.'

Kent huffs and crosses his arms, trying to ignore the scrape that's still angry lining the side of his hand. It's just more evidence. He doesn't need any more of that, just like he doesn't need any more of this.

'Why—?'

(Why what? Kent doesn't really know what he's so pissed off about. Everything, probably. He just really doesn't want to think about Chandler now, not when it's like this, and not when he does enough of that already. It's more rhetorical than anything else but knowing Miles he'll get an answer if he wants one or not. That's what he's like.)

'Because I know about panicking like that.'

Miles pauses, and Kent frowns at his knees before turning to meet his gaze.

'I know. I did the same thing when Judy had Liam. It was a difficult birth, it was touch and go for a while. And you remember, it doesn't go very quickly. It doesn't go at all sometimes, about some things. It's…' He trails off again, resting a hand on the steering wheel as Kent feels himself unfurl, unhook his hands from his elbows. 'It's awful, that feeling. It leaves you reeling for days, even when you know it's all right again.'

'And?'

(He wants to know, now. Damn him. Damn them all.)

'He thinks he's okay. He's not. Adrenaline makes you see things a different way.'

'Adrenaline doesn't last forever.'

'No. It lasts long enough.'

Miles's all-knowing tone doesn't serve to devalue his words as it usually does. It's not even sarcastic, and that must be a bloody miracle. It should be a reason for celebration, really, but now's not the time. Instead, Kent stills, trying to work it through in his head. He can't, not yet, he doesn't get very far and it's obviously written all over his face. It always is. He never could keep secrets.

'And what do you want me to do about it?'

(Maybe he'll have a better idea if Skip tells him, because Kent has no bloody idea what he's supposed to do with this sort of information. He tries not to think about the fact he does actually sound a little desperate.)

'Look,' Miles begins, making to drive off now Kent's made it obvious he's in no mood for this, 'I don't care if you shag him rotten or not. I don't even know if he wants anything like that. I don't know if you do, either. But you've got to do something about this sooner or later.'

He should care that his sergeant is talking to him about shagging his DI. It should be embarrassing and absolutely mortifying and something that you just do not do but Kent passed all that a long time ago. He's just tired, now. Tired and confused.

Kent runs his fingers over his forehead, resting his elbow on the window. 'Do I?'

It's been four years. They've managed. Why change what works?

'I'd say so.'

He sighs, defeated, because Skip's won, hasn't he? He's made his point. It's hit home, and he knows it.

Kent doesn't have to admit it.

'I'd say you're going senile, Skip.'

'I don't know why I bother.' Miles tuts, then mutters an addition that sounds suspiciously like, 'You're both thick as pig shit.'

Kent can't help but laugh at that.

(It's the only logical thing left to do.)

Miles parks the car as close to his front door as he can get it and claps a hand on Kent's shoulder when he doesn't immediately move to unbuckle his seatbelt.

'You'll figure it out.'

'Will I?'

(He doesn't know if he's actually asking. He might be. He doesn't know if he's ready to, really, but he opens the car door anyway.)

'Maybe. I might have to kick your arse again though.'

Kent laughs, it's almost involuntary, and he climbs to his feet. 'I'll try and pencil you in my diary somewhere, then.'

'Get off with you.' Miles gestures a finger towards the building on the other side of the pavement. 'We aren't giving you tomorrow off for nothing, you know.'

Kent doubts he'll get to sleep anytime soon, not with the water still lapping around in his ears and Miles' words worming their way into his head, but he smiles and nods anyway. Miles can tell, he doesn't doubt, but they know when to push and when to leave it.

'Thanks for the lift.'

'Not a problem. His nibs didn't want you on the bike, anyway.' He shoots Kent a significant look that meets its mark but gets ignored. 'Try not to slip in the bath.'

He does huff out a laugh at that. 'I think I can manage, skip.'

'I'm sure one of us will pop round, just to make sure.'

The rain drips down the back of Kent's neck, trickles past the fleece of his hood and seeps into the fabric of his shirt. It makes him shudder and frown at the sky from where he's stood with one hand on the rim of the open door, but Miles just returns his unhappy, 'I'll see you, then,' with a suitably dismissive noise and, with the slamming of a door, Kent watches the blurred rear lights blend into the distance.

Kent's never hated England so much for being damp.

The foyer lights flicker on as the front door slams shut, the lock clicking into place on its own. Kent stands for a moment, still, and relishes the solid ground beneath his feet. But the post's still overflowing, and the carpet's still peeling at the corners, and he's still painfully aware that the period conversion isn't as new as it was when he first moved in. The conversion itself is probably considered period now. Home sweet bloody home.

The stairs still squeak and his door's still missing a number. Why is is that when everything feels like it's changed, everything stares straight back at him, more the same than ever? It's painful. That's painful, the worst thing, when his key still fits and the post Stuart's left chucked on the kitchen table's still there and there's no sign that Riley's been rifling through his drawers and the sticky note he'd left on the fridge to remind himself to buy butter's still managing to hang on.

Everything's inconsequential, in the end. Isn't it?

He's just been dunked in the Thames, and he's still got to take the bins out.

He may as well go through the motions.

Still, after the bone-creaking sigh, Kent supposes he's been happier to come home to an empty flat, and with a lifetime of flatmates behind him that's saying something. The first thing he does is turns on all the radiators to the highest they'll go, pull all the curtains shut against the cold air tapping around the edges of the windows, and shut all the doors. He's pretty sure most of the routine is just in his head; most of the cold is probably in his head, too, but if doing something about it makes it feel less biting then he's going to do it.

After all, it's not as if anyone's there to point out how oddly he's acting.

Maybe the fact he knows it's odd makes it all right.

(Maybe he's just odd.)

It feels like the flat's staring back at him. People have been staring at him all day, from Chandler's panicked eyes and the nurses' careful prodding and Miles' sarcastic disbelief. Kent himself, when he catches sight of himself in the mirror and he realises he looks about as tired as he feels. For some reason he hadn't thought that was the case. None of his thoughts seem to line up anymore and he doesn't know what to do with himself… so he sets about making tea, because it's warm and it's a routine and it can't very well go wrong.

The cold creeps through him like wetness; he tries to ignore the fact he's shaking until he tries to put his half-drunk mug down and the sound clatters through the empty kitchen. He flinches even then, embarrassed at having seen himself do it, and settles for burying his face in his hands. He doesn't know what to do with himself: he's tired but doesn't want to do anything about it, he's vaguely annoyed at his own fucking feelings, he's reeling from how matter-of-fact Miles is about the fact that Chandler had—for lack of a better term—lost it over him (him), he's aware that he should probably eat something but he can't be bothered, thank you very much. He feels a little sick, actually, but that's mainly because Miles just spoon-fed him the possibility that what he's thought is unrequited might have a good chance of being the opposite and not him developing pneumonia.

At least, Kent thinks so. He's pretty sure.

But he's not going to think about that now. What he's going to do is wrap himself in every blanket he's got, vegetate in front of late night television, and consume what might constitute his own weight in tea. Then he's going to bundle himself into bed, possibly still in socks, as mad as that might be. He's definitely not going to dwell on what Skip said. Not yet. Not without a good night's sleep between then and now. If he can even manage that in this state.

Kent decides on a shower. It's a start, at the very least, and although he spares half a thought for his water bill he lets it run just a bit too long before getting in. The water's scalding and Kent stands under it until his skin's mottled red, until he's sluiced off the Thames, the mud, the memory. Chandler.

Fuck.

He doesn't know why that thought makes the familiar feeling of tears sting behind his eyes. Kent angles his face into the spray instead, so he can't tell which is which, and tries to think of something else. It doesn't really work, because Chandler's the man who walked into the path of a gunman, the man who boxed a Kray, the man who tackled a witch hunter to the ground, and somehow he's also the man who held on to Kent's pulse as if it was his own.

Kent doesn't care what Skip said. That isn't important, is it? He's a member of the team, he's been with Chandler since the Ripper, they've worked together for near on five years and what decent bloke wouldn't be worried if one of their colleagues had just been dragged out of a river? What decent policeman wouldn't? Miles is right about one thing: Chandler's a good man. A good policeman. He cares about them all.

He braces himself against the tile with a fist and waits until the water's tinted cold. The towel's warm, straight off the radiator, and it's a reassurance until he finds a pair of jogging bottoms that aren't too battered and pulls on what's probably one too many tops and a jumper his nan had knitted him when he was still in college and she'd been going through an oversized phase. It doesn't matter, no one's there to see and if he's still up when Stuart staggers in then he'll just remind him that he spends his shifts wearing a sodding chef's hat and is in no position to be passing judgment.

The doorbell goes when there are four empty mugs on the coffee table and he's pulled the spare duvet around himself, blindly watching whatever comedian's on now. There had been two before, neither of whose names Kent remembers.

He gets up too quickly, swears as he drops the hot water bottle on his feet and almost yanks a lamp off a side table with the edge of the duvet; there's another noise from the direction of a door, a quieter knock of knuckles this time, and he turns to look in its direction with an unimpressed look. If this is another takeaway delivery that was supposed to be for the flat upstairs, he won't be pleased.

'Just a moment,' he calls, voice oddly croaky. It hasn't done that for a while.

He fights off the last of the blankets with a renewed ferocity that doesn't last; he walks away pulling the sleeves of his jumper over his hands, feeling oddly exposed. He might have felt all right earlier, just damp and embarrassed, but if he's honest with himself now all he wants is to be left alone for a little while. He doesn't get a lot of that. Moving hurts, a bit, now he's sat down and got up again. Not a lot. Just on the periphery, like he's not slept in a while. He feels like he probably hasn't, and doesn't want to contemplate how he's going to feel in the morning.

(Like hell, probably, but that's not much of a change.)

Kent twists the lock and undoes the chain instinctively, not really looking. It's only when he heaves it open and finds Chandler standing in the dingy hall outside that his head goes quiet.

'Oh,' he says, before he can stop himself. 'Sir.'

Chandler doesn't really look that much more sure of himself. In fact he looks mildly surprised it's Kent that's answering the door, even though it's his flat and Chandler knew full well he'd be at home.

He clears his throat, hands in his pockets. Kent doesn't think he's ever seen Chandler look more awkward. 'Kent.'

For some reason, all he can think is that Chandler's tie is different. It would be, obviously, it's not a surprise but for a moment it's about as far as Kent can get. It's green, not the burgundy from that morning. The shirt's different, too, and the suit. Not enough to really notice from a distance, or if you didn't work very closely with him, but definitely different.

'Sorry.' Kent shakes himself, forces himself back into the moment. 'Did you—did you want to come in?'

(It's an odd way to phrase it, but it'll have to do because it's the only way that's coming to mind.)

'I mean, Stuart's out.' He gestures vaguely over one shoulder with a thumb, then flinches as he realises what that sounds like. 'My flatmate. I really should have said that. I mean, if that's what you were wondering… about.'

It's probably best if he stops talking now.

Chandler's just watching him.

'I, um.' He loses words like Kent's been losing thoughts. 'I thought I should see if you were all right.'

Kent doesn't mention the fact that it's late. Too late for social calls, really. Something about the way Chandler says it implies that he knows he's being irrational but is going to push on regardless.

'You'd best come in, then.'

Chandler half smiles, relieved, and Kent's heart stutters. It's gentle, soft, self-deprecating. He wishes it didn't make him think back to Skip, to what he'd said cast in the green light of traffic and streetlamps. They're images that shouldn't—and won't—go together. He's not going there. Not tonight.

'You don't mind?'

Kent's mouth quirks into a wisp of a smile as he shakes his head, but a frightening thought occurs to him as he steps aside and lets Chandler walk into the flat.

'Miles didn't send you, did he?'

Chandler goes still, looking far too posh for Kent's flat's hall. The paint's peeling, for God's sake. 'Pardon?'

Kent sighs and walks back towards the kitchen. 'Never mind.'

He's not going down that road if he doesn't have to. Although he suspects Chandler's unknowingly in line for another of those conversations. Miles just has to corner him tomorrow, while Kent's not there. For a minute he considers warning him, saving him the trouble, but that would involve admitting he'd listened and Kent doesn't think he's quite ready to do that yet. He's already panicking a bit because those are Chandler's steps behind him and this is his flat and he suddenly can't quite seem to remember if he's left the place clean or not.

'Sorry about the…' Kent gestures vaguely to the mostly empty draining board; he'd forgotten Stuart had done the washing up. 'Dishes.'

(He's really not coming across as entirely rational, is he? He probably isn't. He really doesn't want to know if Chandler's laughing.)

'No, it's fine.' Chandler says it with a slight arch of brow, as if he's been expecting worse. 'I should have called ahead, really.'

Kent stumbles around for an answer even though he feels there is none. 'No, you're fine.'

(Yes, you are, sir. He's got to stop thinking like this, especially at times like these.)

He gestures vaguely in front of him, hoping that if Stuart had the sense to get some soap out he wiped down the table, too. 'Sit down, if you want to.'

Chandler nods as if he's about to take him up on the offer but doesn't move towards the table and chairs. Instead he hovers near Kent's elbow as he busies himself making another cup of tea—it's a reflex, it's something to do with his hands, and somewhere in between the kettle and the tea bag Kent wonders whether or not he's stalling. He probably should ask Chandler if he fancied him—one, one, not him, where had that come from?—but his brain's not working and he's already put the box of tea bags away. It'd just be awkward. He's not even going to mention the fact there's an unopened box of green tea in the cupboard somewhere.

'Did you manage to sort it out?'

Kent knows Chandler knows he means the case. He probably also knows that Miles has already told him the answer but they've got to start somewhere.

'I'm afraid the superintendent had it reassigned. One of the DCIs is dealing with it now.' Chandler sounds deflated. Kent understands. 'Something about our past record.'

Chandler says our like he means my, and Kent worries the edge of his sleeve where the knit's unraveling.

'You, um…' The DI trails off, glancing around the room as if seeking reassurance from the unfamiliar objects. 'Well, you might have to be interviewed when you come back.'

'Oh?'

Kent isn't as surprised as he sounds, stirring in the milk. He'd had a lot of time to think about it, after Miles had left him in the ward, and he's come to terms with that particular conclusion. The only thing he has to fear from it is his own embarrassment—which, he'll admit, can be debilitating. With them, the excuse of circumstance doesn't work any more, even when it's the truth.

'Establishing the course of events, that's all.' Chandler sounds like someone trying to speak to a spooked animal. Kent can't tell if he's the one who's supposed to be soothed. 'For the inquest.'

'It's fine.'

'I just…' Chandler trails off, watching as Kent taps the teaspoon on the side of the mug and places it in the sink. 'I thought you might like to know ahead of time.'

'Yeah.' Kent actually is glad, he's grateful, but he doesn't sound it yet. He tries again, with a corner of a smile this time. 'Yeah, thanks.'

Chandler nods, and it's that gesture that feels the most grounding. It definitely is when it's compared to the realisation that Chandler thought about him, thought how he might feel, and Kent feels a little light-headed. Though that might still be the cough. Chandler makes this all the more difficult because Kent can't tell what's just the normal abnormalities he feels around Chandler and what might be a worrying side effect. He glares at his tea and tries to concentrate on what's causing the fluttering somewhere in the region of his middle.

'So… are you?'

Kent blows on the surface of his tea, tests. 'What?'

Chandler rubs at the back of his neck as he tries again. 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah, as far as I can tell.' Kent chances a full smile. 'Maybe a bit soggy.'

A sliver of a chuckle slips out, and Chandler leans his weight onto the counter behind him, hands in pockets. Kent thinks it's wonderful, he's wonderful, that he suits his tiny, shitty little kitchen more than any man in Savile Row should. He shouldn't be thinking that, not now, but his mind's got a will of its own and he can't help it.

Chandler's gaze falls to the floor but he tilts his head to one side like he does when he's pleased. 'I think Miles' description was something along the lines of a cat that's slipped into a pond.'

'It's not far off,' Kent says, with a small laugh. 'I daresay he's had to fish out his fair share.'

He'd also say that he probably was like a cat surprised by water: flailing and a bit useless.

'The carp'll thank him for it.'

'Did he also happen to let it slip that I'm naturally buoyant?' Kent asks, a shadow of a grin returning as he goes for another sip of tea. 'Apparently, anyway.'

'What?'

Kent's far more pleased than he should be that Chandler's reaction is the exact same as his own had been.

He says, 'Skip was chatting to the nurses,' as way of explanation and Chandler does smile at that.

'He would be.'

Their low chuckles fade away into a gentle silence, one that's a little more comfortable than the last. It's still charged with something, though, and Kent can't quite tell what it is. He can't help but wonder if he wants to be able to, either, but he chances another glance at Chandler anyway. Another appraising look. He feels himself flush pink when he finds Chandler chancing the same.

Chandler's eyes catch on the cut that Kent knows is there, under the bit of his hair that insists on flopping forward. He's given up trying to stop it tonight, but he must've—yes, he has, he hasn't realised he's doing it—pushed it back in some sort of nervous gesture. He drops his hand just as Chandler drops his gaze, and Kent can see that curl out of the corner of his eye as he stares into the tea that's stinging his palm through the porcelain. He's not going to think about the way Chandler's breathing changed then, for a split second, the way his hand twitched towards him. Not now.

'How?'

Chandler's gone quiet and uncertain again. It's disconcerting.

'What?'

(There are so many options for that question. How did he get the cuts? How did he go in? How did he think it was a good idea to sprint after Robinson on a rainy morning? How did he fall a little bit in love with his boss? Kent doesn't have answers for any of them. Not off the top of his head.)

'How did you…' Chandler trails off again, watching Kent's expectant expression until he had to look to the floor. He shrugs, and it's not a gesture that looks entirely natural on him. 'You know. Fall.'

'If I'm honest, sir, I don't really know.' He wishes he did. Maybe he could chastise himself properly if he did. 'It's all a bit of a blur, as you might expect.'

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—' Chandler stumbles around for words, putting his hands back in his pockets for a second before deciding against it. He cards a hand through the front of his hair and looks about as awkward as Kent feels. 'Miles told me to stop it ages ago—it's idiotic, I know. He's probably right.'

'I can't say I gathered much from that, sir.'

'What?'

'You aren't making much sense.'

'Oh.'

Chandler doesn't try to rectify that particular situation. Kent sips at his tea and the moment stretches too long.

'I probably overbalanced.'

'What?'

Kent's as surprised as Chandler is that he blurted that out, but it's probably the closest to the truth they'll get and if there's one thing Kent can offer Chandler it's the truth. When he's got it. That's not often, so when the chance does come around, he'll take it.

'Falling.'

'Oh.'

Chandler doesn't look soothed by the explanation.

'Yeah.' Kent tries not to notice out of the corner of his eye how Chandler's gaze lingers on him for a second too long. 'Most likely tried to avoid crashing into something and overcompensated.'

Story of his life, really. He always ends up barreling into something else. He's never quite managed to get out unscathed.

Maybe that makes them more alike.

Maybe that's overextending the metaphor.

'You're shivering.'

Is he? He is. Kent hasn't noticed. He's been a bit preoccupied.

'Sorry,' he says, curling his hands into his jumper and staring at the cup of tea he's abandoned on the counter.

Chandler looks at him with a slight frown, body twisted to face him properly. 'Why are you apologizing?'

Kent barks out a laugh. 'Sarge says I've got a one-track mind.'

Even as he says it, Kent knows Chandler won't understand. He's not experienced the prerequisite conversation, and Kent should know better than to reference something that he knows Chandler knows nothing about. But the words come out anyway because sometimes he agrees, Skip's right, he does have a one track mind and he needs to stop it from running so far the rabbit hole that he can't bring it back. That's always been his problem. No wonder he's a policeman.

Kent reaches for the mug, because even if the tea's gone cold he can still busy himself rinsing it out, but he collides with whatever it is Chandler's gesturing. He jumps, at first, and immediately turns to Chandler (orders, sir, tell me what to do because I don't know) only to find him frowning. The thought stuns him—that Chandler's not recoiling—and perhaps it's that stillness that gives Chandler the chance to wrap his fingers around Kent's hand and draw it closer. Kent can't breathe, all of a sudden, as Chandler curls his fingers against Kent's palm, hands clumsy with gentleness.

'You're cold.'

It's stating the obvious but Chandler looks like the thought confounds him.

'I've been trying to do something about that, sir.' Kent forces out a nervous laugh. 'Nothing seems to work.'

Chandler looks up and meets Kent's gaze, but he doesn't move his hand. 'Nothing?'

Kent shrugs. 'Not for very long, anyway.'

He might go hot now, though. With Chandler touching at the inside of his wrist, his long fingers brushing the edge of his palm. He doesn't know why he's letting him do it, really, but he is. There's a hundred things he could say, like his hands are always the first bit of him to go cold; he's that idiot who's pulled out gloves in September because his knuckles keep getting chapped; that he's just like his mother because she couldn't stand a draft either, even though Erica's like a furnace in all weather save blizzards; that he's never minded getting wet before but he'll probably hate getting caught in the rain all the more now, but he can't because Chandler's wrapped his hands around Kent's and he can't bloody well think of anything except that.

It's the sort of silence that makes it feel like everything else has stopped.

(It might as well have, as far as Kent's concerned.)

Chandler's almost reverent, the way he ghosts over Kent's skin. Kent doesn't dare breathe lest he ruin it, whatever this is, but he has to eventually and his controlled exhale doesn't seem to break the stillness. Chandler turns Kent's hand over in his, his jaw tightening for a split second as his eyes dart from one cut to another, some deeper than others, and Kent lets him draw him a little bit closer. They aren't bad, they don't bother him much, and Chandler trails touch along his life line. Kent winces, sucks in a breath between his teeth; the scrapes are tender when it's someone else.

Chandler loosens his fingers with a flinch. 'I'm—I'm sorry—'

'No, no—' Kent tightens his grip as much as he dares. 'It's—it's fine.'

He doesn't really know where he's going with that. He just doesn't want Chandler to let go. It's a selfish and dangerous thought, but it flits through his mind anyway. It always has.

Chandler doesn't let go.

Kent's heart pounds at the edge of his ribcage; it feels dangerous but he wouldn't change it for the world. He can't really move, either, with Chandler's fingers still loosely wrapped around his own, and they're both staring at their hands as if this is the first time they've noticed they've got them at all. Chandler runs his thumb over the back of Kent's knuckles, an unconscious movement although Kent can't imagine there are any of those left with them, and this time he shivers for a reason entirely unrelated to the temperature.

That's the last straw. He can't do this, not like this. They can't. Not when it's so blurred.

Something must show on his face because Chandler pulls his hand away, clearing his throat like he's just realised what he's been doing. The ghost of his touch lingers for much longer, even as Kent tucks his hands in his pockets and tries not to think about it. But what the hell else is he supposed to do? That was… well, that was something.

He's got absolutely no idea what they do now.

Chandler glances back at him, his eyes darting like he's looking for a reprimand. 'Do you mind if—'

'At the risk of being forward, sir,' Kent begins, suddenly bold because he's given himself away now, hasn't he? He might as well. 'The answer to any end to that sentence is almost certainly no, I don't mind.'

'Oh.'

Chandler shifts his weight between his feet then, a bit stunned. Kent can't watch, he doesn't particularly need to see this train of thought, but it feels like he's been studying the grain of the wood floor for too long and he forces himself back.

'What was it, then?' he says, resisting the urge to shove his hands in his pockets again.

Chandler's face looks as if he's still processing Kent's words. 'What?'

'What you thought I'd mind.'

Kent had expected a response that was a word, perhaps two, but all he got was a look. Not a very clear one, either, but he can make do with that. It's not too far out of the ordinary, after all, and it's not particularly distasteful. It's not at all, in fact, even though Kent's looking for any tendril of discomfort. He might not look as confused as he reckons he does if he could find some.

There's a curious feeling in the air, as if the whole of Whitechapel is about to exhale.

In a frantic skitter of a thought Kent wonders if Chandler's just going to point to the door as an odd sort of goodbye and swoop out. He wouldn't blame him; they've crossed lines already. But he doesn't, he's too still for that, and at the same time there's an echo of slight movement about him, indecision. He's trying to figure out what to do and hesitating in each direction, vicarious trial and error.

Well, Kent's not going to push him. That's never been his forté.

But, from that sudden look of decision that usually comes with a breakthrough, Kent realises he might not have to.

There's a flurry of movement in the quiet kitchen and Kent struggles to remember how to breathe as Chandler gathers him to his chest, wraps both arms around his shoulders and pulls him close. Kent might squeak—he's not sure but that surprised sound probably came from him—but he lets him. Why wouldn't he? Granted, he doesn't quite know what to do with himself now that his cheek's pressed against Chandler's shoulder. He really doesn't, not when he can feel each deep breath through Chandler's jacket and his own jumper and the bloody coat he's apparently forgotten to take off.

Why's he thinking about that now?

Why's he thinking at all?

Chandler presses his nose against Kent's curls, breathing deeply. It's a silent license.

Kent's stunned limbs gently reawaken (the whole thing feels slower than it probably is, but Kent doesn't care) and he curls his arms around Chandler's middle, taking two great fistfuls of his coat. He pulls himself closer, trying to keep his breathing level as Chandler makes a small noise and crushes closer, warm and solid and familiar. He's not comfortable, Kent can feel the tension along his back, but from the way his grip hasn't moved from Kent's shoulder suggests that he's as nervous about Kent's reaction as Kent is surprised by the course of events.

Chandler takes another breath, a shuddering one this time, and Kent tightens his own grip.

'You scared me, Emerson,' Chandler whispers in the warm space against Kent's neck.

Kent's knees feel a little bit like water. 'I'm sorry.'

'You don't need to be.'

He nudges closer, because Chandler sounds like he blames himself and he can't have that, can he?

'I still am, though.'

Chandler makes a noise that Kent can feel in his chest, and it's not entirely unhappy. He doesn't pull away either—if anything, his hold tries to pull Kent closer, and that's the first time Kent's actually felt him be clumsy. He wishes he could say something else, something that might make Chandler believe that this is where he wants to be, where he's wanted to be for years, but words don't seem to be enough. There aren't words for that sort of feeling. Not that Kent knows, anyway. Instead he lets Chandler rest his cheek on top of his head and exhales with relief as Chandler relaxes against him.

So that's how it starts. Being more.

Maybe they don't even have to say anything. Maybe that's better—plausible deniability. He lets out a laugh against Chandler's shoulder and although he feels movement that would suggest that Chandler had just shot him a confused look (or tried to, at least, their current position wasn't really conducive) he doesn't move to meet it. He just adjusts his grip on Chandler's coat so he's not slipping away and breathes in the lingering scent of his aftershave, the same as what he'd caught for a moment whenever Chandler brushed past him or leant over his shoulder. It's painfully familiar.

Chandler lifts one hand to stroke at the back of Kent's neck. 'Are you sure you're all right?'

For a moment, burrowed there against Chandler's chest, Kent considers. Yes, he's all right. He thinks so. There are a hundred things that could go wrong, but when aren't there? Today they're pneumonia, secondary drowning, and infections, all detailed on that bloody paper that's somewhere on his bedroom floor under a pile of denim; any other day in the office it would be panicked suspects and killers and freak accidents. He could be electrocuted by the toaster on his day off, for God's sake. So, on the whole… all in day's work.

'Yeah.' Kent takes another breath, relishing the press of his forehead against Chandler's shoulder. 'Yeah, I feel all right.' He picks his head up after a moment, although he doesn't release his hold. Chandler doesn't either, even as he meets his eye. 'I'm sorry about your suit.'

'What?'

'I know from experience that Thames mud isn't anything you want stuck to your sleeve.'

He's using the impersonal you and they both know it, but there's still a flicker of recognition in Chandler's face. A shadow of disgust follows, discomfort, but when he comes back to meet Kent's gaze there's none of it in his eyes. Not anymore. Kent doesn't know where it's gone, though he suspects it's nowhere good. It'll come out eventually, it always does, but in the moment when Chandler rests his head against Kent's he doesn't think either of them really mind.

'You might not believe me,' Chandler begins, words careful and deliberate, 'but I think you're more important than any suit of mine, Emerson.'

Kent might make some incoherent disbelieving noises—low, breathless—but the words are a hot, dry whisper against his forehead that's punctuated with a press of lips. It's hard to misinterpret, but Kent tries, and the idea only cements itself in his head when Chandler does it again, a little firmer, before Kent shuts his eyes and tucks his nose into the curve of Chandler's neck.

'You don't mind?'

Chandler still sounds surprised. Not displeased. Just surprised.

Kent smiles and says, 'No,' and they're both muffled by Chandler's coat.

He doesn't know how to disentangle himself; he doesn't want to, not really, but he's going to have to let go eventually. Whatever was on telly before has morphed into something much less raucous and a little more like Attenborough going on about insects or meerkats or something that makes chirping sounds. Kent shivers again, and Chandler runs a palm up and down along his spine. The movement is reassuring, grounding; it's warmth and pressure and a promise all in one.

How had he ever come to deserve this? You can't manage this by accident, can you? He doesn't know.

(He might not even care.)

Kent pulls away with a reluctant sigh when Chandler loosens his hold and finds he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands. Chandler doesn't look like he's got any idea either.

'You could stay, for a while.' Kent says it almost without thinking. 'If you'd like.'

He'd like it, very much, if this is what it's going to be like from now on. Whatever this is—something good, he hopes. Kent suppresses the urge to adjust the edge of Chandler's coat where they've pushed it out of place, but it doesn't work forever. He nudges a lapel with curled fingers but only for a second; they'll get there, won't they, and they'll start from somewhere else.

There's a pause, then Chandler looks like he's not at all surprised when he says, 'I would.'

Kent thinks back to the sitting room, to the mess of duvet and unwashed mugs and the cold hot water bottle. The two other blankets he'd left folded up on the back of the couch, within arm's reach, just in case. The paperbacks he'd abandoned, the newspaper that he couldn't bring himself to read. The fact Miles is probably sat at home this very instant, chuckling to himself. The fact Stuart's shift must have ended half an hour ago.

'Tea?'

Chandler catches his eye and chances a slow smile.

'Please.'

Kent smiles back, and forgets to hope he's got enough mugs left.

A/N: Written for a prompt on the Whitechapel Kinkmeme over on Livejournal. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks for all the continued support and reviews. 3