Tie-in to Parts 4 and 6 of the Moustache arc.

Warning: Implied non-consensual sexuality.

A/N: Sorry folks, fell into a creative drought. I'm better now that I've got a routine again. There will be a more definite conclusion to the Moustache arc later, but for now, an interlude, just to get me writing again.

I'm not entirely sure this fits with the rest of Art, so let me know how you feel about it.

Beta'd by the ever-lovely Adidasandpie, upon whom I am apparently a very bad influence.

Jones had been surprised to hear that Hopkins was crossdressing. Not surprised by the act itself; no, he'd worked with 'Stella' three times before the boy's promotion and thought he was damn good at it. A little too good, in fact, but Jones wasn't one to judge.

No, he wasn't surprised by the idea of Hopkins crossdressing. He was surprised that Hopkins had agreed to do it again, after what had happened the last time. Even Jones still shuddered at the memory.

Fall of 1893 had been cold, and this particular night was replete with chill, dry winds forewarning winter's imminent arrival. Just the sort of night you didn't want to spend out in a dirty, dimly-lit street, waiting for a throat-slitting madman to happen by. Unfortunately, that was just the night that Jones had set himself and five PCs up for. The numbers were necessary - their quarry, Simkine, said throat-slitting madman, had already killed one constable on the way to his preferred prey. Of fallen women, the Yard knew he had killed three, possibly in the midst of 'employing' them. Nowhere near as gruesome as the Whitechapel murders of a few years prior, but that didn't stop a few paranoid whispers that the Ripper had returned.

Such circumstances might have frightened a lesser man, but if there was one thing young Stanley Hopkins had in abundance, it was nerve. He'd been informed that he was to truss up like a three-penny upright and play the bait, and his only response was whether he should secret a truncheon into the outfit.

The plan was simple. Hopkins, posed on the corner like an artist's model, was the lure. Two other constables nearby assured his safety, with one in uniform walking his beat, the other plainclothed and huddled in the doorway of a shop, ready to duck out and chase off any would-be customers that didn't match their man's description. Two minutes away and well within whistle-distance were Jones and the other two constables, and once an hour the uniformed man would make his way over and report that nothing was happening.

That was the way it went for most of the night and into the small hours of the morning. A far-off clocktower chimed three o'clock. Jones' men were fighting to remain alert. Jones was breathing warmth into his numbing fingers. The patrolling man appeared and reported that no one had passed at all that hour, that the street was dead but for their presence.

Five minutes after he'd gone, Jones decided it'd been quite enough for one night. Their man had preferred to strike between midnight and one, anyhow. He dismissed the men with him, who were only too happy to rush off home, and went on his own to fetch the others.

He found the plainclothes man first, curled in his doorway with his head bowed. The man did not stir when Jones called.

"Peters, you stupid lout, if you've fallen asleep..." Jones growled, nudging the man with his boot. Still no response. Jones' skin prickled, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He pushed Peters' head up.

Even in the darkness, the clean red line that traced the underside of Peters' jaw was starkly visible, staining his neck and collar with bright, fresh blood. The skin under Jones' hand was still warm. Jones swore and leapt to his feet, his own knife finding its way into his hand. There was no sign of the killer - nor of his other two constables. The street was eerily silent but for the gentle rattling of dry leaves on the wind.

He found the uniformed man at the other end of the street, curled onto his side in the gutter like he'd lain down for a nap. Blood oozed a lazy trail across the pavement toward the drain. Jones rolled him onto his back, scowling at the empty, dead eyes that stared up at him. No point in checking for a pulse. Still warm.

Still no sign of Hopkins.

His signal-whistle was at his lips, some hope in him that the other men hadn't gotten too far away, when a scream shattered the silence - a strange scream, not quite masculine, not quite feminine - and was promptly silenced. The whistle fell forgotten as Jones darted toward the echo of the arrested sound. A shop on the corner of the street seemed to be its source, windows boarded, front door locked. Alley door had been forced. He didn't hesitate to burst it open.

On the floor of the dusty back-room were two forms involved in what would, in another context, have been a very intimate embrace. In this context, it was a mockery. Hopkins was pinned to the ground by Simkine's broad-shouldered form, legs spread and skirts pushed up over his knees, wrists caught and held over his head in one meaty hand while the other slid the edge of a bloody blade up one exposed, pale thigh.

Jones took all this in within a moment, and reacted within the next. He grabbed Simkine's collar and yanked him off Hopkins, throwing him into the nearest wall. Simkine recovered quickly and brandished the knife, but Jones parried it with his own, knocking it aside and closing to crack him upside the head with the pommel. When the man didn't go down quickly enough for his tastes, Jones hit him again, making sure he'd be out for awhile (possibly forever, but that wasn't Jones' problem), and then slapped the bracelets on tight.

That done, he turned back. "Are you alright?" was what he intended to ask, but the words died at the sound that reached him.

Hopkins had pulled his skirts down, sat himself up and backed into the wall, but now leaned to the side, bracing one hand on the ground as he retched. The other hand clutched at his chest - Jones only then noticed that his blouse had been torn, and he was holding it together.

Jones took a step forward, but stopped, unsure. Were Hopkins actually a woman, he'd have gone to comfort her in a heartbeat, but comforting a fellow was a rather different thing, and a Yarder, quite another thing entirely. One didn't just-

Another sound interrupted his train of thought, a different sound. It took a moment before he recognized it for what it was, simply because it was the last thing he expected to be hearing: a sob. Hopkins was sobbing, curled up on himself in that dark little corner, with a torn dress, smeared make-up, and a wig that had only stayed in place by sheer force of luck.

Jones had the fleeting thought that he ought to be disgusted by such a spectacle. But he had younger sisters - three of them, in fact - and when he looked at the shivering wreck before him, he could only think of the night the eldest had come home crying because her young man had been far too familiar, and told her when she shied away that he wouldn't love her unless she allowed his attentions. Needless to say, the young man had received a visit that night from then-constable Peter Athelney Jones, and learned a valuable lesson in proper treatment of young women, particularly young women closely related to morally-grey policemen. Before all that, though, he'd had to calm her down enough to tell him.

With that in mind, Jones knelt beside the young constable and gathered him into an awkward embrace. Hopkins stiffened at the touch, but he didn't pull away. He didn't sob again, and some long minutes later his shaking subsided and he could again breath slowly and without hitching. Only then did he push Jones' arms off him and set about drying his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone," he said, his voice still a little tremulous.

"No one's hearing a word from me, kid."

Jones had sent Hopkins home, then, and taken in Simkine, who was convicted only of the two later murders and of assaulting an officer. The man's family connections earned him a long sentence in gaol rather than the gallows. Meanwhile, Jones put in a commendation for Hopkins, and the young man was finally promoted to Detective Inspector. Jones was not surprised that he refused the next time he was asked to play a woman.

But now, rumour had it that Hopkins was taking up the frock again, and by the way Gregson and Lestrade were fussing over dressing up Hinchley, the rumour looked to be true. Jones perched quietly in the corner, hiding behind a sly smile. At least Hinchley was reasonably strong and more than reasonably dependable - he would be a good backstop, if he would stop fidgeting.

The door finally opened, a flustered constable announcing what was no doubt Hopkins' arrival. A few years and some new lines notwithstanding, 'Stella' was stunning as she had always been, and the immediate effect on the other men would have been well worth the watching, but that wasn't actually why Jones was there.

Hopkins' eyes found Jones, narrowing almost imperceptibly. They simultaneously held a challenge, anger, and fear, as Jones' presence no doubt reminded him of what he could be getting into.

Jones returned the look with a simple, silent question. Are you sure about this?

A beat, and then Hopkins' eyes softened, and he gave the minutest of nods. Then his gaze flickered away. "Good evening. And which of you dashing gentlemen is to be my escort?"

Jones finally allowed himself to relax and enjoy the show.

"Evening, Hopkins. Looking lovely as ever."

The boys don't belong to me, as I'm sure you're aware by now.