A/N: So yesterday I went writing crazy and somehow got three chapters written. I posted one last night, here's the second, and I might post another tonight or save it for tomorrow morning, I'm not sure yet.

~xXx~

Chapter 28

Simon paced round and round the room until Gene felt positively dizzy watching him.

"Me desk got a high gravitational pull has it?" he demanded.

Simon's eyes snapped over to him.

"What?"

"You've gone into bloody orbit!" Gene accused.

Simon closed his eyes and stopped pacing.

"Sorry," he said. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sorry, about everything. Stupid fight."

"What's Batman done this time?" Gene asked, "borrowed yer working model of Starbug without passing yer strict usage requirements?"

Simon felt tired suddenly as he contemplated talking to Gene. He slumped into a chair, his posture resembling a moody teen who'd been told to be back by nine when the party went on to midnight.

"My stupid fault," he mumbled "I got carried away that's all."

"Thought you'd called a truce," Gene told him.

Simon gave a hefty sigh.

"We had," he admitted "that makes me feel worse. I just stormed in, made a bloody idiot of myself." He paused as he groaned. "And completely insulted Robin. I didn't mean to." He shook his head. "I can't get over my stupid bloody anger. I hear Kim's name and go berserk."

"The barrel o'beer in yer veins probably isn't helping," Gene reminded him.

"Probably not," Simon sighed deeply.

Gene studied Simon. It wasn't the first time the man had been in a fight. In fact he'd entered into one with Gene himself just days after arriving; a fight that saw Gene barred from his beloved Latte Land for several weeks.

"I think you've got a problem, Shoebury," Gene told him.

Simon looked at him crossly.

"I know," he snapped, "I'm already under a bloody therapist. What more do you want?"

"No, I mean yer technique," Gene told him, "Make a fist."

Simon hesitated.

"I'm sorry?"

Gene demonstrated.

"Go on, make a fist. Show me how you hold yer hand."

"Gene, I'm not making a fist," Simon frowned.

"Imagine Batman swanning in here with his tongue down Stringer's neck," Gene recommended. Despite it being a throwaway comment he saw a scowl form over Simon's face. "Now show me."

Involuntarily Simon raised his hand, fist clenched.

"I don't get what –"

"See, here's yer first mistake," Gene set about rearranging the formation of Simon's fingers and thumb, "There. You need to hold yer hand more like this."

"Are you seriously teaching me how to punch someone?" Simon demanded.

"Not that you didn't give me a fair bloody shiner after Jimbo lent you his video collection," Gene began, the unfortunate memory of his hairy backside in proximity to Mrs Shoebury being something he probably shouldn't have been bringing back to Simon, "but you could have got far more power behind yer punch if you'd held yer hand like this."

"You are, you're teaching me how to punch someone," Simon cried, not sure whether to be horrified or grateful.

"Well it's bloody frustrating watching you and knowing you could do better," Gene told him.

Simon narrowed his eyes at Gene.

"This is sounding suspiciously like fatherly advice," he said.

"Bugger off then," Gene told him, "carry on punching like a girl!"

"I do not punch like a girl!" cried Simon.

"You ever been punched by yerself?" Gene demanded.

"I don't need to be punched by myself to know my technique is fine!"

"Alway's room for improvement," Gene told him, "come on, Shoebury, humour me. I've to decades of police brutality to pass on."

Simon hesitated. Then, very slowly, he returned his fist to the position that Gene had left it in.

"There," he said, "is that right?"

Gene studied the pose and nodded.

"Not bad, Shoebury," he agreed, "we'll make a man out of you yet. Next step is practice."

"Who exactly are you suggesting I practice on?" Simon demanded.

"People who say The Outer Limits is better than The X Files," Gene sad sarcastically, "I'm not suggesting you go out leaving a trail of black eyes in yer wake! Get the number of that gym Batman spends his off-duty hours at, find yerself a punchbag and get some training."

"I don't get it," Simon felt lost.

"You've got to do something about that temper of yours," Gene told him, "much as I respect Bolly's belief in all that psychology bollocks it doesn't seem to be doing much for you and yer red mists. So do something practical."

Simon thought it over. What Gene said made some sense. As much as he hated what he'd done to Robin the act of physically throwing the punches had given him a sense of release.

"You might be right," he said reluctantly

"I'm the Gene Genie, the chances of me being wrong are negligible," Gene told him.

Simon hated to admit it but he felt that Gene might just have something there. He needed a physical outlet for the anger and frustration that he couldn't seem to override. And if this worked then maybe something constructive would come out of the whole terrible fight after all.

~xXx~

Keats carefully placed the lid on the box and gave his wall one last look. All the photos. All the faces. All the people who sought to make his life a misery. But this was it, the night he had been waiting for. This was the night that everything would change. His revenge was coming down to a very basic level. A very human level. He would destroy them in a more literal sense than he'd ever thought of before.

He stared at the clock on the wall. It was almost time to leave. He closed his eyes and breathed out until his lungs were empty and he needed a deep breath to refill them. The darkness had completely taken him over and where any small trace of humanity remained now there was only darkness and malevolent intent.

"Tonight," he whispered, "is the night."

~xXx~

Robin felt like a bloody idiot as he followed Jake down the corridor towards the staff break room. He couldn't believe that he'd given into the urge to release violence toward Simon. Yes, Simon had not only overstepped the mark, he'd left the mark so far behind that it couldn't be seen with a telescope. Yes, defending Kim was his top priority. Yes, he'd been sinking beers like they were lemonade in the middle of a heat wave. But none of those things excused what he had done, especially not to Simon.

"The first aid kit in here has the TCP," Jake told him.

Robin screwed up his face.

"I fucking hate the smell of TCP," he said.

"Infected wounds smell worse," Jake told him.

That shut Robin up. He couldn't really respond to that.

He felt a bit like a schoolboy sent to the nurse's office for scrazing his knee playing football at lunchtime. His lip was stinging like hell and his cheek throbbed with the gouge marks of Simon's fingernails. His ribs were hurting fairly badly too. In the heat of the moment and full of alcohol he hadn't really felt the pain but now that he was cooling down and sobering up it was starting to make itself known.

Just as they arrived at the door of the break room the lights flickered and died.

"Oh, what the…?!" Robin mumbled.

Jake looked all around.

"Power cut?" he frowned. There was a whirr and a click as the back-up Generator kicked in and the dim emergency lighting came on. "Oh great," he sighed, "this is really going to help me see what I'm doing."

"You don't have to –" Robin began but Jake shook his head and opened the door.

"You need to be cleaned up," he said, adding a 'sir' afterwards so as not to sound bossy.

Robin waked slowly into the CID restroom and peered around, hands in his pockets. It wasn't much to write home about which was probably why it was rarely if ever used. A few brown, padded chairs, a kettle so full of limescale there was barely room for enough water to make one cup of coffee and a grimy coffee table with a few car magazines and a dirty ashtray were about the limit of the décor.

"Cosy," he said sarcastically.

Jake pointed Robin to the least grotty chair and went for the first-aid kit on the wall.

"Sit down, Sir," he said, "I won't be long."

Robin sank down rubbing his sore ribs as he did so. He thought he might be sobering up but the room started to spin at double-time so he presumed he was wrong. Closing his eyes, he leaned back for a moment and waited for things to stop twirling around him.

"I feel like an absolute arse," he groaned.

Jake gathered together everything he needed from the first aid kit and set them out on the table before sitting down beside him.

"Everyone gets wound up sometimes," he said awkwardly. It suddenly struck him that they were alone in a quiet room with what could be mistaken for romantic lighting and after their earlier conversation he'd entered the point of self-loathing for the severity of the crush he'd developed on Robin.

"Not usually this badly," Robin sighed, "It's not like me, honestly." He looked at Jake, "I don't want you to think I talk with my fists."

"I don't think that," Jake promised him. He opened the bottle of TCP and poured a little onto some cotton wool, mildly amused by the disgusted look on Robin's face as the smell caught his nostrils. "Sorry about the smell."

"What must you think of me?" Robin said, knowing he was more disappointed in himself than anyone else could ever be.

"Sir, it's fine, honestly," Jake held up the laced cotton wool, "Sorry, this might sting."

He began to dab at the fingernail tracks on the side of Robin's face causing him to flinch and draw in his breath quickly. He felt stupid and ashamed for making such a fuss and used all his resolve to face the rest of the cleaning of his wounds stoically. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see the expression on Jake's face.

"Me and Simon," he began awkwardly, "I… we were together for a really long time and it's proving difficult working out where we stand with each other now that we're not." He flinched as the TCP met with a particularly nasty bit, "we need to find a way to deal with that."

"It's none of my business," Jake said awkwardly.

Robin opened his eyes.

"I hate violence," he admitted, "I'm so angry with myself."

"Everyone does things they're not proud of," said Jake as he tilted his head slightly to see Robin's wounds a little better, "especially after a few drinks."

Robin grunted and gave a tiny nod.

"I don't feel all that great," he admitted, "I don't think beer agrees with me." He paused. "Neither does Simon."

That raised a smile from Jake which made Robin smile back. It brought Jake's attention to exactly how close to Robin he was sitting as he treated his wounds and he felt extremely self-conscious suddenly. Shuffling backwards an inch or two he coughed a little and put his cotton wool to one side, going for a fresh piece.

"Soon be finished here," he said, "and I'm sure you'll get the all-clear to go home soon, not much going to happen now."

"Bombs in the ballot boxes?" Robin suggested as the cotton wool loomed at him.

"Hold still, Sir," Jake said, "I need to see to that lip."

"You don't have to keep calling me Sir," Robin told him.

Jake felt his cheeks reddening and hoped profusely that the dim emergency lighting dulled their colour. He knew that. It was just something he did. He had a real thing about authority. He couldn't help it. Marci often pulled his leg about having a boner for authority. He was in serious danger of that becoming literal. He cleared his throat and tried to focus on cleaning Robin up.

"So," he searched desperately for a topic; one that didn't involve Robin's dark, brooding looks or toned physique or edgy characteristics. It took Jake a full ten seconds after his 'so' before he could think of a way to follow it up. "So who did you vote for, sir?" Not the most original question in the world but at least it avoided anything uncomfortable

"I didn't get the chance in the end," Robin told him, "we were busy with the dogs right up to the end. And anyway, sort of pointless when you already know the result."

He flinched as the words escaped. He had been doing so well with not making time-travel faux-pas but the alcohol had loosened his lips somewhat.

"How do you know that then, sir?" Jake asked.

Robin gave a nervous laugh.

"Psychic," he mumbled. He gave a slight smile. "Well… foregone conclusion really, isn't it? Going to be labour." He flinched as the TCP made contact with his stinging lip. "Ouch."

"Sorry," Jake said softly, dabbing carefully at the blood and cleaning it away. One, two, three times he pressed against Robin's lip with the pad in his fingers before he looked up and caught his eye. He knew his cheeks were going a darker shade of red. He looked back down to the area he was cleaning but that only made him blush harder because the sight of Robin's lips sent a warm buzz through his body and it started to settle somewhere that was going to make the situation a hell of a lot more uncomfortable than it already was so he moved back a little, noting that Robin's lip was much cleaner, and blinked a few times to try to break his fixed gaze away from Robin, who hiccupped loudly.

"Sorry," he said in embarrassment, "fucking beer."

At least that was enough to break the strange moment that Jake felt sure was building. He shook himself physically and cleared his throat.

"Just going to dress these scratches," he said as he reached out and gently touched them which made Robin draw back and take in a sharp breath. "Sorry," Jake apologised quickly, "I'm so sorry, I don't know why I did that… I knew that was going to hurt…"

"It's alright, it's alright," Robin dismissed.

"Sorry," Jake said again.

Robin bit his lip cautiously.

"Is it really bad?" he asked.

Jake took a closer look at the scratches.

"Might have to amputate," he said. The joke broke a little of the atmosphere and they both laughed gently. "Nah, it'll be fine," Jake told him, "one of them's fairly deep but I don't think they'll scar your pretty face."

Shit, where the fuck did that come from? Jake cringed and desperately wanted to invent a time machine so he could go back and erase that comment from history. This was another example of why he was very, very bad at having feelings for another human being: even when he had them – which was rare enough – he managed to execute the least smooth moves in the universe. He felt thankful that Robin seemed not to have heard. Either that or he'd taken it as a throwaway comment that meant nothing. He busied himself finding a dressing and applied it as gently as he could.

"I can't do anything for your lip, sorry," he apologised.

"Not like it's seen a lot of action recently anyway," Robin blurted before he realised how that sounded. He closed his eyes for a moment and cursed himself for putting away so many units. As he hiccupped again his bruised ribs throbbed and he involuntarily clutched them for a second.

"You OK?" Jake asked and Robin felt a little silly.

"Sorry," he said awkwardly, "Simon let his fist loose on my ribs."

"Let me look," said Jake.

Robin shook his head.

"I'm fine. Really," he said but Jake motioned for him to untuck his shirt.

"As the resident first-aider it's my duty," he insisted, "let me see."

Robin closed his eyes for a second, wishing he'd never reacted to the pain. He'd already displayed his chest enough for one day. But nevertheless he pulled his shirt from his trousers and began to unbutton it. He still hated his body being on display, knowing of the scars that lay across his torso despite the artwork that covered them but the alcohol had numbed his inhibitions enough that he didn't really think about it. His poor co-ordination made the buttons a struggle but finally they were undone and his shirt opened; his chest bared to Jake who closed his eyes momentarily, willing his body not to do anything stupid.

Despite the alcohol convincing him to show his bruises to Jake Robin still felt nervous and vulnerable with his body on view and tried to think of a topic to cover up his fears.

"So what made you decide to do the first aid training?"

Shit, most boring question ever, Robin felt like a prat. Out of everything he could have asked he found the single dumbest question in the book. Jake seemed not to notice though.

"I've always been interested in health," he said "I did think about going into a medical career for a time."

"You did?" Robin looked at him in surprise, "me too."

"You're joking?"

"No, seriously," Robin nodded, "I was fine until we started practicing injections. I was OK when I was trying it on an orange. But when we got near real live people.." he shuddered, "turned out I was deathly afraid of needles."

Jake laughed slightly.

"I don't believe that," he said gently.

"No, seriously, I couldn't do it," Robin smiled.

"You can't be afraid of needles," Jake said quietly, "if you were you wouldn't have all of these amazing tattoos, would you?" he asked as he reached out and skimmed his fingers across the ink.

"It's a different kind of -" Robin began but the instant Jake's fingers made contact with his skin he stopped talking, rendered speechless by the strange feeling that travelled through his body at the touch of Jake's hand against him. He swallowed nervously as he tried to deny the way it made him feel. He wasn't used to that kind of sensation, not now. Not any more. Not since he'd been torn away from his life with Kim. It scared him to feel excitement from someone else's touch and he tried to move away but his eyes caught Jake's and he saw the same kind of nervousness reflected in his stare. He watched as Jake swallowed, his expression stricken like a rabbit in headlights. He was so inept at matters of a romantic persuasion that the way he found himself feeling terrified him.

Robin opened his mouth slightly, even though he had no idea what to say. Say something. Anything. Break the silence.

"Uh -" that was as far as he got.

For fuck's sake, Robin, just say something. Finish your sentence. What was it? Something about tattoos.

But all he could think was how long it had been since anyone had touched him, how long it had been since he felt the blood rushing through his veins, his heart pumping so hard, his head spinning. He knew he'd had too much to drink and there was enough beer sloshing in his guts to keep the regulars of the Railway Arms quenched for a fortnight. This was not a good idea. This was a really, really bad idea.

Jake was struck with the realisation that he'd left his hand pressed to Robin's chest for an extraordinary length of time. Shit, what the hell was he going to think? Move it! Just move your bloody hand!

Unfortunately as his hand finally listened to him it did the one thing that he had been trying so hard not to do. He flattened his palm against Robin's chest and swept it smoothly across his inked skin. Jake couldn't; catch his breath. He was choked, struck by the moment, and all at once he felt himself starting to stir and stiffen down below. Silently he begged his over-eager appendage to knock it off, to calm down and not to draw attention to itself while simultaneously begging for divine intervention to stop Robin from looking down. Unfortunately he forgot to beg his own eyes not to drop their gaze downward and the instant he glanced down to see whether it was noticeable Robin's curiosity made his own line of sight follow Jake's.

Oh shit –

Instantly Jake pulled his hand away from Robin, leaving a strange warmth from the memory of his touch as he jumped to his feet, his face the colour of a particularly vibrant beetroot.

"Sir, I'm sorry," his voice shook as he spoke, blurting out his apology, "I'm sorry. I'll go."

A strange sense of panic rose inside of Robin. He hadn't been expecting it, Not that he'd been expecting any of the things that had happened in the last ten minutes, but this one really caught him by surprise. Jake's touch… something in his eyes… something in the way he spoke –

Suddenly Jake wasn't the only one with a problem in his lower quarters. The difference was that Robin didn't care about that. He was far more worried about the fact that the first thing that had made him feel alive in death was about to walk out of the door and something inside of him wasn't going to let him happen.

"Jake, wait," his voice trembled as he scrambled to his feet and reached out. He managed to grasp the end of Jake's sleeve which was enough to hold him back. Jake turned around slowly, his face still hot and his problem still obvious. He looked at Robin with shame and worry in his eyes, expecting the absolute worst but one single word came from Robin's lips. "Stay."

Jake froze on the spot, trying to work out why Robin had said it. It was a joke. It was a mistake. It was the drink talking. It was anything but the truth, it had to be because Jake didn't do romance, and even when he tried it never went his way. But as he looked Robin in the eye he saw something there that he wasn't expecting.

It looked an awful lot like Robin meant it.

~xXx~

A/N: This is ALL THE FAULT OF CERTAIN INDIVIDUALS. "Don't let me ship this!" I said. "BUT BUT ROBIN AND JAKE OTP" was more or less the reply… with explicit evidence to prove a point in one case *glares* Thanks a lot! Like I need more ships! Like I more encouragement to ship!

So you may have noticed I like echoes and repeated themes. This chapter deliberately mimicks/echoes two other chapters going way back in my series of fics. Can you guess which ones?