"I am, as I ever have been, friend to you."
"Listen to him, Edmund. EDMUND!"
The words tear themselves from his throat, harsh and painful. He wouldn't even be aware that he'd shouted, if not for the echo that resounds in the silence of the chamber as Reid stares at the man in front of him. It's as though they're all frozen in time - Reid glances at Drake briefly, eyes glazed as though not seeing anything beyond the hurt - then turns back towards Buckley. He is still for a beat longer; enough for Drake to realise that his words have not been enough to deter Reid from the obvious conclusion of this scene.
(Not even the use of his name has been able to penetrate the rage and pain of the Inspector's conflicted mind, despite Drake having never uttered it before. Reid might not be aware of this fact, but the realisation blindsides Drake for a moment: in his desperation he'd let the name slip from his lips, the treasured name he's kept locked only in his heart, and never spoken—until now.)
It's only once everything has stilled again that Drake realises the enormity of the situation. Reid's cold, quiet rage has been extinguished, and it pains him to see the broken man that remains; the last vestiges of hope torn from him. He knows he is at the top of the chain of command now, but no force on Earth could persuade him to arrest Reid, not after everything the man has been through.
"Inspector. You may have five minutes, I can give no more."
The muted look in Reid's eyes is as painful to him as a blow to the guts; he feels it as a physical pain, and is powerless to do anything about it. The thought flashes through him that he has once again failed him as a friend: a five minute head-start on the authorities cannot atone for four years of absence from Reid's life.
He watches as Reid takes a final glance around the cellar, then turns to walk away without a word. At this moment, Drake doesn't know when, if ever, he'll see him again.
Soon after Reid's return to Whitechapel, he turns up on Drake's doorstep. His strong figure is silhouetted by the light from the moon, casting his face in shadow so Drake cannot make out his expression.
"I hope I'm not imposing upon your evening," he begins. There's a note of something in his voice, under the clipped words, that Drake cannot immediately understand.
He decides not to point out that by now, evening is over, and really it could be classified as night-time. In lieu of useless words, he steps back, allowing the Inspector to step through the threshold and follow him into the living room.
Drake gestures to the decanter of whiskey on the sideboard in a silent offer, feeling the need to play host even though he expects Reid to politely decline. He hopes the surprise he feels when Reid gives a curt nod doesn't show on his face. When he turns back, glasses in hand, Reid has unexpectedly settled on the low sofa, rather than on a dining chair. Drake doesn't quite know what to make of the action, but has no option other than to follow suit; he has rarely seen the Inspector in repose and cannot resist the opportunity to savour it. Reid takes the proffered glass from him, long fingers wrapping around the base; Drake does not remove his hand quickly enough—their fingers brush. He hopes the quickening of his breath is imperceptible enough to go unnoticed.
"How can I help you sir?" Drake asks, once the stretching silence between them becomes too much to bear. They've never been a pair for small-talk; constrained by rank, formality, and the necessity dictated by Reid's reticent nature. In any case, no small-talk could have prepared him for the next words out of Reid's mouth.
"Say it again," he implores, voice low. The tone of it curls in Drake's stomach, sending a rush through him, even as confusion colours his face.
"What?" —not eloquent perhaps, but the only word he can manage at this moment in time.
"Say my name again." If possible, Reid's voice is even lower. He reaches forward, and Drake is suddenly firmly aware of this thing that has developed between them, as Reid's calloused hand lands on his thigh, just above the knee. He cannot take his eyes off it.
Part of his brain is still dimly trying to catch up, but the word forces itself out of his throat before he has chance to consider it—consider this—Reid's eyes burning furiously into his when finally he looks up.
"Edmund."
It's only the third time he's said the name aloud and already it sounds right coming from his mouth. Reid must think so too, because his eyes close for the briefest of moments, before his gaze is back, blazing hotter than ever. He must not mind the roughness of Drake's voice, or the way the short syllables catch on his tongue.
"Again," he pleads, and it's the first time Drake can recall hearing him beg - cannot think of another circumstance that would cause the normally controlled Inspector to lose himself in this way. He's not sure what has brought this on, hadn't even realised that Reid had heard him that day in the cellar.
"Sir, I don't—" The words are wrenched from him; a last-ditch attempt at propriety.
"Again, Bennet." Reid's voice is commanding, but hoarse—the man sounds wrecked.
There is no such propriety to be found in Reid, whose long, slender fingers have begun to trail a path slowly upwards, fingertips catching the sensitive skin of Drake's inner thigh, the slight rub of fabric between their skin providing a hint of friction which anchors them in the moment. There is no denying this.
Drake could not deny it even if he wanted - there has always been something weakening in the way the Inspector says his name, something soft against the stark contrast of 'Drake', or 'Sergeant'. He might be an Inspector himself now, but the title holds nothing against the thrill of the way Reid's voice curls around his name. He had always thought of it as short and sharp, but it has never sounded more beautiful than when Edmund Reid says it, low and reverent. His name is a reminder of every softer moment they have shared together, and this moment is no different.
"Edmund," he all but whispers, and wonders if the sound of it kindles in Reid's belly, as it has in his. He thinks it must have done, if the heat in Reid's gaze is anything to go by. He had not known that the brightest of blue eyes could go this dark. "What brought you to my door tonight?" he manages to ask, voice thick.
Reid pauses for a moment to think on the words to explain; takes the opportunity to down the final drops of his whiskey. Drake takes the empty glass from him and places it on the floor next to his own.
"I had not known, until recently, that you even considered me as friend to you," Reid says. Drake knows they are both thinking of that night when he had turned up at Reid's door in an attempt to prevent the Inspector's inevitable path to self-destruction. Perhaps the whiskey had loosened his tongue that night too, as there were many things he had said that he'd never expected to.
Reid continues, "Yet to see you return to Whitechapel, I allowed myself to hope... These past years have changed us much Bennet, and I would have you speak plainly if I am incorrect in my—presumptions."
The look in Reid's eyes as he says the final word lets Drake know exactly what he means. He marvels at Reid's ability to speak so well, when he himself can barely manage a few words at a time. He supposes it may be because Reid has taken to rubbing slow circles across his thigh with one long fingertip, making thought - never mind comprehendible speech - a difficulty.
As it is, he manages to gather his wits together far enough to utter out, "You are not incorrect."
He cannot think of the words to express his need; does not know how to ask Reid whether this is a moment of madness, borne out of abject loneliness and a depression that seems to have gripped him since Drake's departure, or if he too has noticed this unfurling between them. Any words that attempt to surface wither on his tongue with one look at Reid's expression. They are kindred spirits: two broken men, united in losing those they love—those dearest to them. Perhaps it does not matter what has brought them to this place, only that they are here now, and they are both wanting. What can be wrong in clinging to the last person holding you to this Earth - the only anchor; the safe haven in the storm?
The bedroom is dark as they enter; Drake had only the chance to light one lamp before Reid's knock at the door, and already it is burning low.
He takes care when divesting them of their clothes: he has no such worries about the neat press of shirts, or clean stitches of buttons - yet he knows Reid; knows to ensure the articles remain as immaculate as the situation allows.
Reid's heavy outer coat has mercifully been left at the door, so Drake sets to work on carefully teasing the buttons of his waistcoat open. He works slowly, and not just for the sake of the clothing—drawing out these moments for as long as possible so as to be able to savour them, knowing this is likely to be the only time. Yet melancholy has no space in the crowded corners of his mind, intoxicated as he is by the feel of the smooth fabric under his fingertips as he unfastens the final button and pushes both the waistcoat and Reid's jacket off his broad shoulders in one smooth move. The tie proves a little trickier; it takes a few moments of tugging at the fabric before it unravels in his hand. His braces follow, and Drake lies them atop the clothes already pooling on the small chair beside the bed.
Seeing the Inspector without these layers, it is though the man is already bare before him, even as he stands there in starched shirt, with his lower half untouched: vulnerable in the absence of the hard veneer of professionalism. In this he cannot be Detective Inspector Reid—only Edmund.
Slowly, painfully so - as if he expects Reid to come to his senses and back away - Drake lifts shaky hands to the top button of his shirt. The button is stiff, and takes some encouragement before it comes undone in a sharp motion which brings Drake's knuckle into sudden contact with the soft skin at the hollow of Reid's throat.
Reid startles slightly at the contact, drawing in a short breath that he cannot quite prevent. Drake mutters a quiet apology, his heart racing. Reid waves the words away with a small shake of his head. Their breathing is noticeably shallower now, and Drake marvels in the staccato rise and fall of Reid's chest as he moves to the second button, then the third, then the fourth—mouth running drier and stomach coiling tighter with every inch of skin revealed to his gaze.
Slowly, deliberately, he runs his thumb along Reid's chest, coarse hair giving way to the softer skin at his throat, the curve of his neck. He feels Reid swallow, overcome by the tender motion, his Adam's apple bobbing against the digit. Drake's fist is clenched, resting on the starched material of the shirt—feeling the erratic beat of Reid's heart against the backs of his fingers. They remain like that for blissful moments, completely still except for the slow brush of Drake's thumb against his skin.
A fire dies without kindling however, and the heat between them is reignited with two simple words, spoken quietly, yet forcefully, into the silence of the room—"Bennet, please."
Drake needs no further encouragement, suddenly consumed by a need to remove the shirt as fast as possible; the rest of the buttons are undone quickly, a heated look from Reid telling Drake that he is of the same mind. Fabric is pushed off shoulders; a brief struggle to tug the bunched material and stiff cuffs from his wrists ensues. As he reaches for the button of his trousers, Reid's hand grips his, preventing the movement—instead, Reid brings his other hand to bear upon the buttons of Drake's waistcoat.
"You are too overdressed," he states, and though matter-of-fact, Drake can hear the breathless note in his voice—if ever he needed proof that Reid is affected as he, there is question no more.
The buttons slip easily from the material. It is only when he comes to remove the garment that they both realise their hands are still clasped tight between them; blue eyes catch, and the spark ignites again. Hands are extricated and finally the waistcoat is removed; an amused and triumphant look passes between them, mingling with the desire already burning there.
"Too many buttons," Reid proclaims, almost unnecessarily as he works at Drake's shirt, after the tie and braces have been removed by Drake's own eager hands.
"Just rip them," he mutters gruffly, unable to restrain himself for much longer. The material is already wrinkled anyway; the loss of a few buttons would hardly matter. Any further words die on his tongue however, as Reid silences him with a look that clearly indicates he intends on undoing them all—whether intentionally to drive Drake mad or not remains to be seen, but if so, it has the desired effect.
Once the shirt is removed, Drake half expects him to begin neatly folding it: an exasperated expression is already making its way onto his face when Reid drops to his knees in front of him, the shirt discarded. His breath catches in his throat as Reid looks up at him, eyes dark in the dim light of the room. He works quickly - at last - on the fastenings of Drake's boots, helping to pull them off his ankles even as Drake kicks at the heels to loosen them further. Reid takes the opportunity to remove his own boots, before rising once more, tugging Drake down onto the bed with him. Drake settles at his side, pinning one of Reid's arms to the mattress as he props himself on an elbow to gaze down at the man laid out beneath him.
No man has set a fire in Bennet Drake quite like Edmund Reid. His body is all hard lines and sharp angles under Drake's wandering fingertips—the strong sweep of his clavicle; the jutting rise of his hips underneath the fine material of his trousers.
Reid lies there, allowing this silent exploration of his body—his own free hand grips at the sheets, whilst his other splays across Drake's back in its own limited exploration of the skin bared to him. There are scars, he can feel - souvenirs from Drake's life in battle and on the streets alike. He is relieved that his own scars are relatively sparse on his chest; though he would not begrudge the feeling of Drake touching, or even - dare he think it - kissing his burned flesh, the thought itself colours him with shame. He would not wish for a beautiful moment such as this to be ruined by his unsightly body.
He cannot prevent the small gasp that escapes his mouth therefore, when Drake runs his fingers across the shoulder the flames licked at, caressing the puckered skin. He is not repulsed, Reid thinks in wonderment. As if to prove it, to quiet the thoughts in Reid's mind, Drake brushes his lips against the fine stubble on his jaw. Reid jolts at the sensation, and his mind can no longer dwell on his disfigurement—the only thoughts are of Drake; his caressing fingertips and lips. That such a rough man could be so gentle - belying everything Reid used to take from him, the violence he used to rely on - is a joy.
Then Drake rocks against him, just as his hand traces down Reid's navel, towards the first button of his trousers, and there are no more coherent thoughts at all—only want, and need, and touch.
Drake tugs at the material, allowing the button to slip free. The arm propping him up finally gives way, and he falls into Reid's side. Pressed together, there is little room for movement, but neither seems to care. He rocks into the cradle of Reid's hips—the friction of their trousers heightening the pressure against his groin, yet he cannot bring himself to pull away long enough to undress them further. The quiet moan that escapes Reid's lips at the sensation indicates that he doesn't mind. His hand scrabbles at Drake's back, finding purchase at the waistband of his trousers as Drake finally undoes the remaining buttons on Reid's.
He grinds once more into the strong thigh between his legs, even as he draws Reid's cock from the material and wraps a sure hand around the base. Distantly he registers a louder moan, though can't distinguish whether the gasp belonged to Reid, or to himself. It only takes a few careful strokes before they are both panting—he can feel Reid's quickened breath in the sharp movements of his chest.
They establish an awkward rhythm together, neither minding about the slightly uncomfortable position their bodies are in; it might not be the most graceful of lovemaking, but they are not the most graceful of men—the roughness is fitting. Reid rocks up into the grip of Drake's hand as Drake grinds down onto his thigh, their hips digging into each other's skin. Drake alters his stroke, gripping the shaft of Reid's cock tighter as he pulls upwards, before running his thumb across the head. Reid bucks, hips lifting off the bed. He repeats the motion—a choked sound that could be his name issues from Reid's parted lips.
Their movement is more erratic now; Drake can feel the first tell-tale threads of pleasure coiling low in his belly. He half thinks of moving again, trying to change position - he must shift noticeably against Reid in the attempt, as the other man's hand slips purposefully across his buttocks, holding him in place—it's a clear message that Reid wants it like this.
The pressure against his cock is now a constant ache, and Drake is dimly aware that he is close to coming in his trousers like an inexperienced young man touching his lover for the first time. He wonders if he should be embarrassed about the situation: that he is so close and yet cannot stop, his hips grinding in a constant rhythm. But then Reid moans his name again, clearer this time, and in the breathless voice he can hear that Reid too is close. He strokes firmer now, faster, determined to give as much pleasure as he can to the man writhing beneath him.
Reid's moans are a constant stream as they near the height of their climax; Drake had not expected him to be so vocal, so unrestrained. He comes first with a long shudder, untouched - jerking into Reid's thigh. "Edmund," he cries out, determined to bring Reid with him—knowing the use of his name will break the final thread holding him back. Through the pleasure suffusing him, he feels Reid lose control, spilling over his hand, and the knowledge that he is responsible for the man's gasping breath, the wild look in his eyes, makes the joy even sweeter. They cling tightly to each other, riding out the final trembles.
To Drake's surprise, Reid is still lying supine on the bed when he returns to the room with a cloth, rather than hurriedly pulling on his shirt, as Drake had expected. He is even more surprised to find the Inspector half-asleep, and clearly not intending to move any time soon. Reid's eyes open when Drake approaches, and he hands him the cloth wordlessly, unable to speak in case he accidentally voices his feelings. Instead, he stands in wait, eyes averted, only looking up again to accept the returned cloth. He leaves the room quickly, Reid's eyes burning into his back as he retreats.
By the time he returns to the bedroom, he feels immeasurably more composed. The feeling doesn't last long however, as he finds Reid sat on the edge of his bed, back turned to him. Drake feels his stomach plummet with the sinking realisation that at last, Reid has regained his senses and is preparing to leave. His breath staggers out of him - he has no strength left to attempt to quiet it. Reid turns at the sound, offering him a contrite and apologetic smile. It is only then that Drake takes in the full picture before him: Reid is not reaching for his clothes—he has removed them entirely. Drake stands dumbly for just a beat too long and Reid stammers an apology.
"I'm sorry - I wondered... May I?" It is, as far as he can remember, the first time Drake has ever heard him sound uncertain. The line of his back is rigid, as though he is prepared for Drake to deny him, to ask him to leave.
"Of course," Drake manages, trying to force his voice to remain steady. He visibly sees Reid relax, easing back into the bed and sliding under the sheets. Drake had not ever, even in his wildest imaginations, expected this: Reid to be so forward, so comfortable in his presence.
He crosses to the bed, appraising Reid, and can only hope his eyes don't convey how overwhelmed he feels at the sight laid out before him. Reid's attention is a palpable weight - he feels it burning into his skin, sending prickles of heat down his back - as he removes his own trousers. He meets Reid's eyes as they drop to the floor, and the warmth in his gaze means that Drake never feels the wave of self-conscious awkwardness he had expected. It is clear Reid is not thinking of bolting for the door.
"Shift up then, if you insist on staying." Drake is relieved that Reid takes the brazen statement in the spirit of which it was intended, obliging moving over to allow Drake space to slip into the bed next to him. Their legs brush as they settle into a comfortable position—it is reassuringly companionable, a sign that this evening has not ruined everything between them.
"'Til the morning then," Drake murmurs, hearing Reid's breathing settle out to a steady rhythm. His eyes flutter open for a brief moment, gaze soft and calm.
"'Til the morning."