Disclaimer: I do not own Whitechapel or any of its characters.
Author's Note: So I went through and made some edits and added a little bit to make it flow a little better. Original warnings still apply: Slash, dub-con, and playing with the concept of OCD. Funnily enough, when I first wrote and published it, I thought it was a total failure, but having read through it, I find it not so bad.
Enjoy!
Crash
There are some things you see coming. The snapping of a violin string, the pulse of a headache, a growing infatuation… There are some things you see coming as though in slow motion. You think you can do something to stop them. The pulling of a trigger, the throwing of a fist, the screeching of a car wreck…
But the reality is, you can't
You can't stop a train once it's been derailed.
The straight shot of vodka burns its way down his throat. A recompense of the sort he believes he deserves. Nine people dead. Nine deaths that could have been avoided if he'd just opened the damn letter. He knew it was too good of an ending. He'd had his doubts; out there on the street corner with phantom traces of sewage still bubbling over his skin, he had a feeling not to put them all in the same transport.
For naught.
In hindsight, there were so many things that could have been done. So many options and pathways that could have been trodden in observation of avoidance. Not even condolences from Miles that a young boy's life had been spared could dress the truth up in a fine three piece suit and make it look any easier on the eyes.
Detective Inspector Joseph Chandler had failed marvelously yet again.
If this wasn't proof he was cursed, he didn't know what was.
Another glass empties, the amber liquid searing its way down his throat as he gives a long exhale. The glass clicks hollowly against the wood of his desk as he sets it down either hand bracing on either side. His weight presses forward into the hard lacquered wood, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip. Blue eyes dart back and forth between the half-empty bottle and the bits of scattered paper still littering the otherwise pristine floor of his office.
With his back turned to the door, he never notices the smaller male enter the room.
'Sir?'
One word spoken so softly anyone else might have missed its rise and fall on the air. The sound, laced with concern, worry, and the slightest peppering of wistful hope, hits Chandler's ears with all the force of a gunshot. The rhetorical bullet ricochets through his skull and along his cervical vertebrae to nestle fiercely in the cradle of grey matter between his temples shredding away the last of his nerves and fraying his synapse. When he speaks his voice is subdued almost entirely passive if not for the faintest edge to his words.
'You shouldn't be here, Kent.'
Fingers twitching, Chandler reaches for the open bottle. The light from the street lamp outside the window catches the liquid as it is poured into the glass. The ticking of the nearby clock seems unusually slow, each second's duration extending past the previous. The glass stays stationary on the desktop. A single digit hooks into the silk noose of his time and pulls. It doesn't help.
Even his skin feels tight.
"With all due respect, Sir, you shouldn't be here either."
Chandler turns his head, not enough to look at his youngest DC but enough to catch the younger man's reflection in a frame, albeit the image is distorted by the angle. It's strange, he thinks, the way Kent can look so worn, older than his years, almost angry most of the time but in other moments seem as open and terribly naïve as the day Chandler first met him. This is one of the latter moments.
'What are you doing here, Kent?'
Chandler's gaze slides back to his drink, and he brings the glass to his lips taking a long draught.
'I was just worried about you, Sir.'
Chandler polishes off the drink with a long sigh and firmly sets the once again empty glass on the table.
'Were you?' he breathes too low for Kent to hear, dragging a hand across his face and stifling a sudden inappropriate need to laugh. …Just worried… He holds his first knuckle between his teeth for a moment before allowing the appendage to drop to his side. His knuckles catch against the side of the wood on the way down, a small spark of pain, but nothing tangible. His feet shuffle against the hardwood floor as he turns, finally, completely to face DC Emerson Kent.
('Would you come with me…us?' 'I'd love to.')
Hands on either side of his hips, he leans his weight onto the edge of the desk. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs while adrenaline coils in his stomach as he eyes the young detective still standing at the threshold to the office, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His stance is similar to earlier when asking Chandler to 'join' him down the pub, trying to cover up a slip that had practically shouted into Chandler's face. Not that everything else hadn't already painted the picture in shades of black and white for him. The small smiles, covert glances, his eagerness to please, and a habit for unfounded jealousy… well, perhaps not so unfounded in some cases. And he, Chandler, had done his best to discourage it in recent times - to no avail it would seem.
Curious, how even his cruelest self wasn't enough to deter the young detective. He had been the perfect portrait of callous. After all, there he stands, hovering at the edges of the door frame, all tousled curls and pale angles, nervous, concerned and so desperately innocent Chandler has to remind himself that Emerson Kent is no child. He's seen more than his fair share and will only experience more of the same bitter pain that wells in the pit of Chandler's lungs if he continues on. He had tried to protect him, really, he had. Failure on all counts, then.
('Don't give up hope, Sir.')
But it is his fault after all. He blames his premature elation for his current situation. If he'd been thinking clearly at the time, he would have never accepted the offer for a drink. No, perhaps it was before that. This insufferable need he has to feel as though he's doing something correctly for once in his life, and Kent had always been so willing to offer solace and unsolicited support despite everything Chandler had or hadn't done to deserve it. And the worse of it was Chandler, despite all his wishes to the contrary, wants the opportunity to take it for granted, abuse it, maybe even wrap it in plastic and tuck it away clean, sterile, and only for his usage.
When did Kent become part of the wretched system that was Joseph Chandler's head?
'Why are you really here?'
Did you know that OCD isn't merely an obsession with cleanliness and order? It encompasses everything. A need for control in every definition of the word. God, the images he sees in his head, progressively worsening as of late, fantasies of a most wicked debauchery. They were enough to have him committed if anyone bothered to catch a hint of them. Kent certainly hasn't. Otherwise, the lad would have never ventured so close to his darkness alone. Most of the time, he sees the victims, the nameless. He hears their screams, oh, the revelry he suffers at their pain. Sometimes, though, sometimes he sees Kent, which really isn't a terribly surprise. He'd been a victim once, after all, and when it's Kent, my God, he almost doesn't want the illusions to stop.
'I don't understand.'
Pity, neither does Chandler. He's too exhausted for analysis anymore – for all the good it's done him. His skin itches for respite. His blood hums in his ears. The sight of Kent standing there, so willing, so terribly young, derails the precarious hold he had on the dregs of control.
Chandler pushes himself off the side of the desk. Kent almost flinches, shying away when Chandler's fingertips find the pale plane of his left cheek, and the man has to sigh when the worry lines that so recently had begun to mar Kent's face smooth into an expression something akin to what Kent might have worn in the early days, seemingly eons ago when a fresh DI had appeared and only just begun to tread the murky shallows of murder and mystery in Whitechapel. He never thought then he'd find himself submerged one day, drowning in blood and dying hopes. Everything turned to ash.
Even Kent, the youngling who once offered him chalk, has changed.
'You…' Chandler starts but can't quite remember what he was about to say, more fascinated by the texture of the man's skin under his fingers. Wide, doe eyes stare up at him, confused and questioning perhaps shining with the faintest bit of hope at Chandler's actions. The very glimmer of that perverse ideal makes the bile churn thick and putrid in his stomach like a coiled snake in molt.
'You don't understand how terribly hard this can be.'
Kent smiles. It's a shy, uncertain thing, barely present but there enough for the snake to rattle. Chandler's demon hisses at the gesture and shudders with pleasure at Emerson's next whispered words. So pure, so untainted but entirely blamable.
'I want to try, though…'
'No, you don't.'
It's the last out his facilities can offer the boy.
'I do.'
Kent lifts a hand to touch Chandler's wrist, a gossamer touch against his pulse point. Another shot fires into the dark. Blue eyes widen and Kent's hand trapped in the DI's bruising grip, the door to the office slammed shut. Kent grits his teeth as Chandler presses him against the glass. The taller man hovers close enough to breathe across Kent's face.
'I told you, you don't understand.'
'Sir, please…" Kent's free hand pushes against Chandler's chest, too weak. He doesn't put his heart into it. Chandler suspects he's incapable of ever denying the DI anything. Even this, whatever this black this is. 'You've been drinking.'
Chandler doesn't respond verbally, not at first anyway; he simply brings his free hand up to Emerson's jaw and tilts the brunette's head back so he can look clearly into wide brown eyes with his own glassy blue. When he finally does speak, his lips ghost over Kent's in a way that can almost be tender were it not for the words uttered.
'You really shouldn't have come back here.'
The man's hips press harder into Kent, who winces as the door's knob digs into his lower back and Chandler's nose brushes against the treated gash at his temple. His efforts to push his supervisor away increase.
'Chandler, Sir, we need to get you home. You've-'
'Is there nothing I can do to turn you off me?'
Kent chokes on his words. The smile that rises to Chandler's lips is crooked and dark; it doesn't reach his eyes.
'You didn't honestly think me completely oblivious, did you, Emerson?'
'I-I didn't-'
Teeth clash as Chandler slams their mouths together. Emerson's head knocks backwards into the glass. It hurts, but his eyes slide shut anyway, shock melting from his body like the wax off a candle – it clings around the edges, but in the end the majority of it puddles at the base to be flicked aside for later disposal. Chandler's eyes remain slit open unseeing but for the sparks of color Kent's noises create in his vision. There isn't an ounce of oxygen between them as Chandler's hands find the waistband of Kent's trousers and tug the slighter man forward off the wall and into the office proper, a slide of dress shoes over hardwood. Kent gasps into his mouth when Chandler's teeth bite hard enough on his lower lip to draw blood.
The backs of Chandler's thighs hit the desk end. His foot slithers its way between Kent's to catch behind the detective's left heel and pulls, sending both men hurdling to the floor in a collision of elbows and skulls. Without a moment's hesitation, hands continue to tear at fabric, ties loosen and jackets are shed. Kent's belt is loosened, and it's only when Chandler's hand has snuck beneath the fabric underneath that Kent finds the ability to speak once again.
'Sir, wait!'
Chandler silences him with a particularly harsh kiss. His mind slipping, slipping away as the younger man moans loudly around the firm grip of Chandler's hand on his length.
'How long have you wanted this?'
A strangled cry escapes Kent's lips, the sound somewhere between a sob and a whine. The noises persist as Chandler's hand tugs and pushes. And the keen that sounds through the room drives lucidity out of his reach. It's replaced by blackness. Pure, clean, untarnished blackness.
'Go on,' rasps Chandler directly into Kent's ear. 'Say it!'
'No!'
Kent's whole body lurches to push Chandler onto his back. He straddles the taller man's waist, teeth seeking purchase on tanned skin. He finds Chandler's throat easily enough, but the older man is quick to roll them over and push until Kent's face is practically pressed against the side body of his desk, one of his hands gripping the edge of a leg, belly down while his DI paws away the restriction of Kent's trousers finally ripping the insufferable garment down the man's legs.
There's a broken piece of mirror on the floor in front of Kent. It reminds him of Morgan, only for a second, but the echo is there. Reflected in his own face, in that hideous leathery mask he's been seeing. Surely, Kent's aware of the fact that he's lost his mind somewhere along the line. Why else would he be allowing his DI to touch him like this with harsh, penetrating fingers and despairing teeth? Maybe it's because Chandler needs. He needs with the fury of an angry god. And Kent has always been there, ready and willing to bend to Chandler's needs over anyone else's.
'Sir, please.' He isn't sure what exactly he's trying to say.
The sensation of saliva and digits seeping into his entrance is neither completely foreign nor unwelcome. Associating the rough sensation with Chandler, his teeth in his neck the pulsing heat of his body draped over his backside, it's unfathomable even as the second finger slides home and the hand wrapped around his shoulder tightens as the digits working his backside disappear, and suddenly Chandler's pouring into him, sinking deeper and deeper beneath his skin, owning him without a smattering of a doubt. The force of it knocks the wind from Kent's lungs and leaves him bereft of the ability to draw a breath.
'Kent…'
The edges of his vision blur, and his hips work to meet Chandler thrust for thrust. He groans and hisses with the mixture of white hot pain and pleasure. A hand works its way under his shirt, up the line of chest to wrap around his throat. Chandler swallows the gasp incited by a particularly hard shove. Kent's shoulder slams rhythmically against the side of the desk. At one point, his temple meets the floor hard enough to stun him.
All too soon, Chandler breaks their (can you call it a kiss) lips apart, and the pressure of the DI's body draped over his back disappears as he pulls away rearing up on his knees. His hands cage the box of Emerson's hips and the DC's world turns inside-out.
He can't think.
It's backwards, the lot of it. Wrong. This isn't how he wanted this to happen, but he can't deny the way his heart bursts at the realization of it all. The adrenaline pumping endorphins into his system, and Chandler's hand is reaching around to take Kent in hand.
It has to be wrong. Terribly wrong!
So how does it feel so right?
Kent's eyes slide open slowly, blearily like the survivor of a wreck. The first thing he notices is the piece of mirror under his hand, and in his reflection, Kent sees Chandler as a shadow over his shoulder where he recovers and rests his head heavily against his shoulder. The bit of the man's face he can see is smooth, the stress that had been building for ages invisible. Looking at his own face, Kent watches the mask dissolve, melt, and burn to ashes on the floor. The peace that tingles through his extremities is tangible. He can practically taste it on is tongue.
He's hesitant to move afraid it will snap like a string that's been draw taut, but the discomfort and near suffocating feeling drawn by Chandler's weight over his back constrains him to for fear that his limbs will go numb.
The glass cuts his palm as he moves, and he hisses at the pain. Blood smears across the floor.
The noise and the slight jerk of the body beneath him pull Chandler out of his lull. He gasps, finding himself laying over the prone body of his youngest DC. Eyes wide, like a frightened animal, Chandler withdraws from Kent's body. He sees everything in seconds: the broken glass, the blood smear, the bruises and teeth marks already forming on too pale skin, and the worst of it – Emerson Kent half stripped and wrecked on his floor.
Chandler stands, closing his eyes. The headache that was there before, it's creeping up again from the base of his skull. He swallows down the saliva too thick in his throat. He's fully dressed by the time Kent picks himself up off the floor. He refuses to look at the smaller male as he collects his personal effects.
'It's alright, Sir,' calls Kent.
Chandler stalls in the 'tween of his office and the incident room.
'I would forgive you if you wanted me to.'
Chandler clears is throat, hyperaware of the rustle of clothing as Kent moves to right his trousers, the clinking of a belt being drawn closed, but he can't face it. All of it. What he's just done. Kent doe-eyed and tousled from sex. Best to just get on with it and let the dead find their own killers.
'That's not necessary. You won't be seeing me again.'
And as he walks out of the incident room, away from Kent and the torn up message and files drenched in death and failure, he can't help but feel as though he's forgotten something for the hollow ache that's developed in his chest. He's not entirely sure where it came from. All he knows is it was filled just moments ago.
But he's lost control of the wheel, and it's his heart and body that crash through the windshield to splatter across the pavement.
He can see it in slow motion, hurdling toward the ground. He's helpless to stop it.
End