Strength Over Sense
Nicole Clevenger (April 2015)
Notes: By now you probably know what's to follow, and that's me teaming up with the streets of Whitechapel to hurt Edmund Reid in any way possible. This is a spot of Vigilance Men violence, set a couple of days after episode 1.02. It was intended to be about half as long as it is, but it exploded into a h/c extravaganza. Warnings for language and vomiting. Fill for the h/c bingo prompt hiding an injury/illness.
For nessy. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.
Jackson raises a hand to knock at the open office door, noticing for the first time how much colder it is up here. No cracked windows that he can see, but the candles along the walls flicker as if in a breeze. It feels as if the storm that has been threatening the skies all day is about to start itself up in here.
Reid finishes the line he's writing before he looks up. He makes a vague motion that Jackson interprets as invitation, turns back to his work. Jackson drops into the chair on the other side of the desk, feeling in his bones the entire length of the day.
"It's late," he finally says, when Reid continues to scribble and ignore him. "I'm heading out."
"Mmm." The pen scratches across the paper.
"Thought we could get a drink," he tries again, absently picking at a chip in the desk with a fingernail. "Some food?"
He doesn't truly know why he came up here, not really. Maybe Susan's right. Maybe he's devoting too much attention to this man. Just because he's already seeing a few of the patterns around here, such the one leading him to believe Reid is like to remain here all night without intervention. The one that has him guessing Reid's not bothered to eat all day. The one that has him positive, even after this short of a time, that by this hour Reid is definitely in pain.
It's the job of a con man to recognize behavior patterns. Not his fault that he happens to be better at it than some.
"Enjoy your evening," Reid murmurs, clearly more interested in whatever it is that he's doing. "Attempt to stay out of trouble."
"Said we, Reid."
The inspector glances up from the papers now. Blinks. He shakes his head, drops his gaze. "I am busy." The pen returns to its progress over the blank spaces of the page.
Jackson snorts. "Yeah, and when can that not be said to be so? Come on. It'll keep."
"Your surfeit of leisure time is not a luxury we all enjoy, unfortunately. I am busy."
"Repeat it as many times as you want. I still say it'll keep long enough for a plate of food."
Do those fingers clench a bit tighter around that pen? Reid's getting annoyed; Jackson can read this without being able to see his face. He isn't particularly concerned.
"I'll even pay," Jackson says. Reid has been intent on his pretense of disregard, but at this statement the smooth motion of his handwriting falters. The shock, no doubt. "I hear I'm making a sergeant's wages these days."
Reid groans. He throws down the pen with a little more force than necessary; it bounces on the stack of paper. He rubs fiercely at his eyes. "Why do you torment me, man? Go home."
The chunk of wood Jackson's been picking at splinters. He pulls his hand back at the sharp bite under his nail. Brings it up to his mouth to try and suck out the sting. "No one's trying to torment you," he says around the finger. "Trying to do you a favor. Let's get out of this place for a while."
"I've no need of a nursemaid, Jackson. Nor an irritant."
It's pushing past annoyed and into angry, and Jackson keeps his tone deliberately unruffled. "Not looking to be either." The end of his finger throbs, a relatively giant pain for such an insignificant wound. He pulls it out of his mouth to glare at it. This does nothing to help, and he lights up a cigarette instead.
Reid's staring him down, the muscles working in his jaw. Jackson puts on his best innocent expression. Stares right back. He feels determined to see this through now, a conviction not present when he'd originally walked in.
"And… what?" Reid says, with an exasperated breath. "If I do not go, you will remain here as distraction?"
"Maybe." He hadn't thought that far. This was never a fully-formed plan. "Or I'll make my way alone. But who knows what manner of temptation lies out there waiting."
"You behave like a child," the inspector scowls. "Wheedling and threatening."
Jackson grins, not chagrined in the least. He takes a long drag off the cigarette. "You wouldn't know what to do without me, Reid."
"I begin to think I would be willing to risk it."
"Don't say that. Who would make use of that shiny new deadroom?" Jackson has a sudden vision of Drake in an apron, wielding a bone saw. He shudders. Reid's expression bends enough to take on a hint of the quizzical; Jackson waves the unspoken question away, trailing a thin streak of smoke through the air. "All I'm saying is that it's a better idea for you to accompany me than it is to sit here."
Reid checks his pocketwatch. Sighs. "Very well."
Surprise twists wrong his inhalation, and Jackson coughs. "Simple as that?" He watches Reid shuffle his paperwork into a desk drawer.
"I have not the energy to argue with you. Do not continue to fight a battle you have already won."
He has no idea what he's done to achieve this victory, but he'll take it. "Well okay." Jackson gets to his feet. He pretends not to notice when it takes Reid more of an effort than it should to do the same.
He heads downstairs first, leaving the inspector to make the trip without scrutiny. Artherton stands sentry behind the front desk; Jackson crushes his cigarette out under his boot and ambles over to lean on the wooden surface. Artherton eyes him warily.
"You leave for the night?" the man asks.
It sounds a little too hopeful to Jackson's ear. "That I do, and I'm taking Reid with me. Hold down the fort, Sergeant. And try not to miss me too much while I'm gone."
"If you would refrain from giving my men instruction, Captain, I would appreciate it."
Reid, coming up behind him. He's got his lapel bunched in his fist, a sure sign that shoulder's bothering him. Jackson's lips twitch into a frown before he can straighten them out again.
"Just answering a question," he says with a shrug. "Wouldn't want to be rude. Artherton here might think I don't like him anymore."
Artherton's whiskers shift with his inaudible grumble. Jackson winks at him. He's come to truly enjoy poking this bear.
"I shall return shortly," Reid says to Artherton. He has to release the grip on his coat to accept his hat from the desk sergeant; as soon as he puts it on, his hand returns to its bracing position. Jackson wonders if he even realizes that he's doing it. "It seems the Captain needs a nanny if we wish to keep him out of our cells."
"Should I assign a uniform to him, sir? Sounds like to be a round the clock task."
"You volunteering your services?" Jackson asks, his smirk only deepening at the look of near horror this thought brings to Artherton's face. "Come on – admit to Reid that you see me in your dreams."
"Bloody nightmares," Artherton says.
Jackson tips his hat to the man behind the desk, pleased to note that the inspector seems to be breathing a little easier beside him. "Let's go," he says, turning to lead the way to the door. "Before Artherton tries to steal me away."
"I would not put up a fight," Reid says.
He still doesn't entirely understand how he ended up here, keeping this company. A series of tiny steps all leading in this direction. Some nights he wonders how long it can possibly last. It's absurd, this pairing. Him here.
He refuses to let himself think about how much he suspects he's going to miss it when it's over.
"Careful, boys," Jackson calls back, playing his part as he pushes through the double doors. "Man might think you don't want him around."
"I know," Reid commiserates with Artherton behind him, in a voice Jackson suspects is deliberately pitched so that he can hear. "I am beginning to regret the decision to hire him also."
The Bear had been crowded, and almost claustrophobically loud. Their meal mostly silent, conversation falling off in the face of the noise level and the headache that he was certain Reid had. The cuts above the man's eyebrow still stood out starkly against his skin; made, Jackson guessed, by the same missing ring that the inspector now kept close. He'd spent the meal watching Reid do little more than push food around his plate, his own fingers playing absently with the chain around his neck that these days feels far lighter than it should.
Once outside, Jackson had taken a moment to appreciate the rancid Whitechapel air – cooler, at least, if no fresher – before lighting a cigarette and intentionally moving in the opposite direction of the stationhouse. Reid had followed, though through want of the companionship or simple inertia Jackson wasn't sure. He didn't ask.
They're several streets away now, meandering through the sparser nighttime foot traffic. Most of the people out here at this hour only linger for want of anywhere else to go. They stay mostly to the thick shadows; Jackson's lost enough nights out here to know that it isn't the most sociable crowd. Not that Reid's giving them much of a challenge. The inspector walks along beside him with his hands in his coat pockets. Jackson has no idea where it is that they're headed.
He suspects Reid doesn't either. The man seems unfocused; it's not the first time Jackson has gotten this impression over the last couple of days. The results of Carmichael's beating, maybe – Jackson hadn't been there in time to see things firsthand, but he'd dragged the scene out of Drake once things had settled a little. When he'd realized they were both bleeding. That Reid wouldn't stop rubbing at his neck.
Near strangled with a belt it was said, but Reid had refused him a look; the inspector had left them shortly thereafter. Handing the boy over to Drake's care and purporting to be on his way home.
Jackson had been in his own hurry to get out of there. To get back to Susan, to be sure that she was really as unharmed as she claimed. It'll be a long while before he can rid himself of the image of Carmichael forcing her bent over that table, her face terrified and bloody. He'd had to put her in a hansom, had to leave her so he could go clean up the mess he'd made.
Just as well anyway. Susan had shut him out the moment they made it through the door.
Jackson can still see the bruises, peeking out from under Reid's high collar. A sickly yellow-green that contrasts dramatically with his skin. He's tried not to scrutinize them too often, the longer he looks the more heavily his guilt weighs for the part he played in the whole thing. Not that he'd seen a choice, and he'd done his best to make right in the end. But he's all too aware of the sequence of events.
As, obviously, is Reid. Though the other man knows not the motivation behind it.
He has to stick close now. Reid's given him no goddamn choice. The man's got his name and his ring as proof to go with it; for reasons of his own, Reid seems content to let it lie for the time being, but there's no question Jackson needs to keep an eye on this situation. Like he told Susan, they don't want this man as enemy. He tells himself this is the reason he's coaxed Reid out here. The reason he's been so watchful. The lie comes surprisingly easy, but it doesn't stop the guilt beating its wings in his ears.
There's a group of men – five, no six – standing around something they've got up against a wall. At this hour the clump of people can be nothing but suspicious, even without the pinned prey; Reid takes notice before Jackson has to point it out. As they cross the street and near the small crowd, Jackson can see it's a someone over a something. And that it looks like it might be a kid.
"What the hell?" He starts pushing his way through the group.
Reid's at his shoulder, his mission the same. "Police. H-Division," he calls. Most of the men fall back a few steps, though the two pinning the boy to the brick don't move. "What is it goes on here?" Reid demands.
"We're doing your job," the man in front of Jackson snarls. "This cur's been stealing from up and down this whole street." He looks familiar, and after a beat Jackson places him as one of Lusk's Vigilance boys. Bigger than it seems a man should be, with at least six inches on him; drunk too, judging by the smell. Fucking fantastic. He's overly conscious now of the four at his back in this improvised arc of a half circle, their body heat pressing against him.
"Release him," Reid says. It's a tone that leaves little room for argument. But these men are angry and have a low respect for the police, and it takes a moment before anyone reacts. The boy's eyes jump around the surrounding faces as the adults debate his fate; he's filthy and disheveled, and he looks far too tiny next to the brutes beside him. Jackson swats at the thick fingers still circling the small wrist nearest him, his other hand hovering over his gun.
Finally the frozen tableau melts. The man breaks his hold without dropping his glare; when the one on the other side follows suit, the boy stumbles and crumples to the ground. Jackson crouches beside him, leaving Reid to deal with the group above his head. The tension is visceral, and he keeps one ear on the proceedings as he checks the kid over.
The first thing he notices, this close, is that their he is a she. Maybe ten years old, youth and the dirt and the messily cropped hair all adding to the illusion. The trousers don't hurt either, two sizes too big. They're torn and bloodied around the right ankle, suggesting a newness to the leg injury the kid won't stop squirming long enough to let him examine.
"Hold still. Not gonna hurt you," he murmurs. Either the girl doesn't believe him or she has no plans to obey; the end result is the same. When he tries to grab her ankle, she kicks at him.
"Where is Lusk?" Reid asks. "Who leads you?"
There are too many people breathing above him. They're at the mouth of a narrow alleyway; the echoes bounce away into the darkness. He doesn't like these odds. His own vulnerable position down here.
"Lusk meets with the committee." Jackson glances upward, past all the fidgeting legs. Reid is facing down the speaker, but Jackson is far from comfortable with the way the other men are beginning to crowd in. The girl on the ground sends another kick his way, and he gets to his feet.
"Kid's hurt," he says, drawing attention his direction. "Recent, I'd say." Jackson sends a pointed look around at the men and the heavy sticks that they carry. These men were recruited for strength over sense, their fear shaped into anger. Unfulfilled, when the man named Ripper was never caught. He'd taken care to stay out of their way then, and he sees no cause to change that policy now. Unresolved anger is always looking for somewhere to land.
"We will take the child to Leman Street," Reid says, not shifting his eyes from the man before him. "Charges may be brought in the morning."
It is not a well received idea. Especially by the girl. While they're all busy arguing, she seizes her opportunity. Even hampered by the injury, the kid moves fast.
With this sudden motion, the pocket of fragile civility collapses. Seeing their prize escaping, the group morphs into shoving muscles and swinging fists as the men fight to get past; it's all Jackson can do to stay standing. Big shifting bodies, chaos conspiring to seemingly double the shouting group in size. He can't see Reid. He's trying to get at his pistol, but an arm hooks his and he has to struggle to free himself. He gets a glimpse of Reid, just in time to see the inspector slammed sideways into the brick wall.
Jackson's fingers curl around the hilt of his gun, slips it out of the holster with a practiced ease. He fires into the air, and the unexpected sound turns them all into statues.
It splits violently through the quiet of the night, and Jackson can only hope that maybe someone over at Leman Street will hear and investigate. A gunshot is not a normal sound on these streets, and certainly that noise was loud enough to carry. Perhaps it will be odd enough to attract some attention.
A more immediate benefit reveals itself, as three of the men take off running the other way. He hadn't expected it, but he's not going to argue with a lessening of the numbers. Now a fourth peels away in the same direction. If he'd know that was all the effort it was going to require, Jackson would have had his weapon out as soon as they'd first approached. He doesn't understand how these coppers get anything accomplished without guns on their side. Where he'd come from, guns were the language of the land.
He's feeling a bit pleased with himself, and he doesn't fight too hard with the smirk tugging his lips. But there's still two men to deal with, one of them the drunk giant. "Reid?" He slides his gaze away from the two who are left, checking to see how the inspector is faring.
Reid's lost his hat, but he's on his feet. Staring them down, and though Jackson's only got a view of his profile, it paints a clear picture of his irate expression. Good enough. The captain's focus returns to the two big bodies facing them. The rain they've been waiting for begins to lazily fall, fat drops splattering dark dots on the leather sleeve of his outstretched arm.
"They circle around," Reid says, without looking his way. Crushing any hope that this might be coming to a close. "Find the child. I'll follow."
Jackson's mouth opens, the automatic argument formed and looking to escape. His attention bounces now between Reid and the men. Those solid sticks in their hands. He can't simply leave him here. But he doesn't want those other four to get ahold of that girl first.
"Edward Ludlow," Reid says to one of the men, and Jackson sees a flicker of response around his eyes. "James Oliver. I know your names. What will you do now?"
It seems to stall them a bit, this identification. Jackson backs a few steps down the alley, his eyes still on the standoff.
"Collect your friends and go," the inspector tells them, his voice rumbling through the dark. "And we shall pretend we never met this night."
It sounds a fair offer; the men look to be considering it. Jackson moves off down the alleyway, forced to trust that Reid knows what it is he's doing.
There's no doubt that the kid is more familiar with this dank warren than Jackson, his only chance in finding her if that leg injury has slowed her down. He can't even make out his shoes in this dim alley, the shape of his boots melding with whatever unidentified garbage they tread on. Half the sconces on the walls are out, candles snuffed by drops of rainwater that have found their way through cracks in the overhead brick. He's still got his gun in his hand as he prowls through the maze. He'd be a liar if he said that the weight of it doesn't make him feel a little better.
On the first go, Jackson passes the nook where she's hiding. Something grabs for his attention, though, a subconscious niggle that has him retracing his last few steps. She's wedged herself into a shadowy crevice that's barely large enough to accommodate her frame.
"Come on out, darlin'. I'm one of the good guys."
He hears the words after they leave his lips, and a part of him wants to take them back. Or at least offer up clarification. Okay, maybe not one of the good guys. But I'm with them.
Something big and invisible scurries past his foot, and he smothers an undignified noise as his toes curl in his boots. Fucking rats. The angles of the alleyway distort sound, bending and bouncing; unseen voices swell for a moment before fading off, but it's difficult to pinpoint their distance. Jackson peers futilely into the darkness. They need to get out of here. Find Reid. "Trust me," he says. "You're better off with us than the mob."
She doesn't move; with Jackson blocking her egress she's got nowhere left to go. He can hardly blame her for not wanting to come out, despite his meager assurances. They are, after all, planning to take her to a jail cell.
Okay, so maybe there ain't any good guys.
But there's definitely someone approaching, and they've run out of time. Jackson finds the girl's arm with his empty hand, trying to be gentle but still determined to pull her out of there. "Sorry, kid," he mutters. "Nothing personal." He manages to get her free and mostly standing beside him, spinning to face the oncoming threat with his weapon raised. She struggles, but he can't spare her a glance. Jackson tightens his hold on her arm, trying to keep her somewhat behind him but wary of letting her go.
The girl's ready to bolt again, that much is clear. He's willing to bet he's bruising the hell out of her arm.
As the figure comes closer, it sharpens itself into a shape more familiar. Jackson relaxes a little, lowering his pistol as he releases a breath. "Reid?" There's something off; even in this darkness, Jackson can read a crookedness to the lines of his posture. Reid moves tentatively, too carefully. Like a man trying to convince the world of his sobriety. The inspector staggers, his hand finding the stability of the damp brick.
"Reid?" Jackson calls again, giving the girl's arm a rough tug. He drags her stumbling the short distance to where Reid leans heavily against the wall; she's not his priority at the moment. Reid pushes himself away from the support, only to slump back against it with a groan. He rests his forehead on the brick, and Jackson sees that the left side of his face is a black slick of blood.
"Christ." He reholsters the pistol, requiring at least one unoccupied hand. The girl seems determined to hamper every movement, each motion he makes countered by a violent pull in the opposite direction. He needs to get Reid nearer the light, to evaluate the extent of the damage; it looks as if the old cuts above his eyebrow have reopened. An unnecessary reminder that sits like lead in his gut.
"Talk to me. What the hell happened?" Jackson demands, attempting with his free hand to nudge him toward the closest lit sconce. "C'mon, Reid, gimme a couple of steps this way."
The inspector won't move; the girl moves too much. And with every minute that passes, their risk of being cornered back here increases.
"We must go," Reid mumbles, the only response Jackson has gotten from him thus far. He has not yet lifted his forehead from the wall.
"You're reading my mind," Jackson says. "But first I want to get a look at your head."
"Not now." This time Reid's shove off the wall is more successful; he stands blinking at them, albeit swaying slightly. "You located the boy," he says flatly, stupidly.
"Girl," Jackson corrects automatically, grabbing Reid's arm to be certain he stays upright. He's got ahold of both of them now.
The modification clearly derails Reid's tenuous focus. "What?"
"Christ," Jackson swears again. "Nevermind."
Head injury. More than simply a reopened wound – a gift from the big guy, maybe, or occurring when Reid had been hurled into the wall during the melee. He'd been standing on Reid's other side after, had only a view of the opposing profile. Jackson can't truly say that Reid hadn't already been bleeding then.
Jackson shifts his hold to Reid's right side, unwilling to yank on his left shoulder; he's got his other charge still in tow, and she's become no more cooperative. This would all be a lot easier without her; truly, he's beginning to think about simply letting her go. Jackson wraps his fingers around Reid's elbow, tugs them both toward the candles.
He's never wanted children. At the moment he feels as if he has two of them.
"C'mon," he urges. "This way."
Eventually Jackson wrangles Reid into the light, propping the inspector up as best he can with all the squirming coming from the kid. Fortunately the man seems content to remain there for the moment, and Jackson pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to try and deal with some of the blood.
"Headache?" Reid's right eye is narrowed to a squint in the dim light, his left puffy and disturbingly unresponsive. Jackson shakes his head. "Don't answer that. 'Course you got a headache. Dizzy?"
The shadows and the constant pulling on his other arm make Jackson's efforts at cleaning the wound prodding and clumsy. Reid tries to brush his hand away. "We've no time for this. We must move." He seems more aware now. Though that's an observation based purely relative.
When Reid starts off on a wavering course toward the entrance of the alley, Jackson sees little choice but to head after him. Discussion over. The girl digs in her heels, renews her attempts at escape; he's done fighting with her. Jackson slings her small body over his shoulder. He ignores the noise of useless protest she makes.
He catches up with the other man, not difficult with Reid's uneven pace. Jackson deliberately walks on the inspector's left. "You seeing anything out of that side?" he asks. Working to confirming a theory.
"Very little," Reid admits through his teeth, but he does not stop walking. There's a sense of hollow determination in the progression of one foot in front of the other. "It's disconcerting."
Disconcerting. Jackson rolls his eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I don't doubt it."
Swelling, he thinks, from repeated trauma to the same site. Temporary complications caused by pressure. Jackson refuses to dwell on the possibility of anything more serious than that. Get out of this alley, get rid of the kid. Get to better light. It's a mantra, and he clings to it.
But as they near the last corner before they're out in the open air, Jackson can hear the sounds of people. More than one, for certain. He stops; a lagging step later, Reid does the same. Because the captain stands to his left, the inspector is forced to turn his entire body to look at him. The motion unbalances him, and Jackson grabs his arm when he staggers.
"Sounds like they've regrouped. We go the other way?"
Reid looks disoriented, barely on his feet. But he shakes his head, a tiny movement more felt than seen. "No. I am the law here. We go this way."
The girl over Jackson's shoulder launches another round of revolt, kicking wildly at any part of him she can reach with her short legs. She lands a solid shot or two to his stomach; her flailing shoes graze his hipbone. Not merely uncomfortable – she's getting a little too close to more important bits for his liking. Jackson resists an urge to smack her as he shifts his hold to try and pin down her legs.
"Knock it off," he grumbles pointlessly, feeling a need to pretend something in this night is under his control.
Reid reclaims his arm, pulling away and visibly squaring his shoulders. His fingers move toward the blood on his face, but stop short of actually touching the injury; his hand drops to his side, curling into a tight fist. Jackson eyes him warily, not wanting to ask the question forefront in his mind. But needing to know the answer.
"You steady enough to do this?"
Reid flinches; his chin comes up. "Yes," he says, as Jackson had expected he would. A waste of the breath required by the question.
"Okay," he says, still unconvinced. But he'll back whatever play Reid wants to make here.
The inspector appears uncertain of this, recent history suggesting perhaps otherwise. That, or Jackson's skepticism reads clearly on his face, despite the dual hindrance of dim light and Reid's one working eye. "Be ready," Reid tells him, "but do not interfere. These men respect only strength."
Gun returned to his hand and the kid wiggling like a sack of cats over his shoulder, Jackson matches Reid's speed. It's too easy to slip into memories of those months of Ripper, when fear coated everything and even the air seemed to follow you around with a damp hand heavy on the back of your neck. Everyone had been anxious to find somewhere to lay blame – those on the streets especially desperate to end Mad Jack's reign – and the power that had been implicitly given over to the Vigilance Men then remained something they were loathe to give up. He figures the odds are split about even that this group will recognize Reid's authority, that they'll back down easy. Probably depends on how angry they still are.
The group, reassembled, waits for them at the end of the alley. Just in out of the drizzle, blocking their exit. Reid doesn't hesitate, intent on cutting a path directly through them.
"Stand aside and let us pass," Reid says to them. "Inform Lusk that he and one – one – witness may appear at Leman Street tomorrow to present charges."
His voice is firm, but Jackson is less confidant in his stance. Reid's feet are positioned a hair too far apart for it to be considered wholly natural, searching for balance Jackson guesses he's sorely lacking. Though the captain suspects he's the only one who notes it. Reid's left hand is still cramped into a fist, fingers clenched as inflexibly as the muscles of his jaw.
All in all – what with the blood and the angry resolve and the mangled half-glower – Reid looks an imposing figure. Any harm come up until now might be written off as overzealous accident, incidental contact while in pursuit of purpose. But if these men choose to make a pridefully misguided stand here, with their prey plainly in custody, there is going to be hell to pay.
Jackson sees this understanding rippling its way through the men, can pick it out on their faces as to each one the thought occurs. They fold away slowly, opening a route to the rainy main street. But the big drunk guy remains an obstacle. Ludlow. He stands toe to toe with Reid, looming over the inspector. Reid has to tilt his head back to meet the man's eyes.
"The child will be held to account for any crimes that have been committed. Your task is done," Reid tells him. The man only blinks, and Jackson fights the impulse to grab Reid's arm and simply drag him out of here. "You will move," the inspector demands. The tone brooks no debate.
A bit of obvious posturing, long enough that Jackson begins to wonder if this idiot will decide his reputation won't hold with backing down. The captain's paying more attention to this than to his captive, and it earns him a hard kick to the gut when his restraining grip on her legs slackens. He hadn't realized he was virtually holding his breath until the air is set loose in a gush by the impact of her shoe.
"Yeah," Ludlow finally relents. "Yeah, we'll be there." He refuses to move, though. Reid steps around him, directing Jackson to precede him through the small crowd and into the street; the captain does, and Ludlow gathers up his own group with a wave of his hand. It's difficult not to turn around, for Jackson not to at least glance over his shoulder and to continue walking as instructed. A show of disregard, this big fuck you with their backs.
He's itching to look behind him. His fingers twitch and contract in their hold on his gun.
But it sounds as if they're all now headed the other way, and every clear step toward the station eases a bit more of the tautness in Jackson's shoulders. Well, one of them at any rate – impossible to really relax his left side while anticipating the next attack from Miss Squirms-a-Lot. He wonders if this is anything like what Reid feels, this insidious rigidity that starts so small but creeps to spread over everything; before he had been aware it was even happening, the tension had gotten its fingers wedged into everywhere. Stretching and squeezing, and generally making everything ache. If he's lucky, Rose will be available when this is all over, to give him a massage just the way he'd taught her. Though he thinks he might need someone more like Bella for this. A girl with stronger hands.
Jackson's debating the pros and cons of therapeutic benefits over perks more sexual in nature, when he hears a soft grunt behind him. A noise that would not have been audible over much else. The kid squeaks a protest as he spins around to investigate. He sees Reid stumble round the corner of the side street they just passed; Jackson winces at the sounds of retching that float his way over the drumming of the rain.
The girl starts beating at his kidneys and spine with her tiny fists. "Fine – you looking to walk on that leg?" Jackson growls, swinging her back to the ground. The storm is no longer content to remain as backdrop, the water falling from the sky in earnest, and the smell coming off her wet clothes so near to his face is decidedly unpleasant. "Be my guest," he says.
He holds her up and in place with a hand around her elbow. His fingers encircle her entire arm.
They're not being followed, the Vigilance Men off to find other conquest. Jackson stows his pistol, watching impatiently for Reid to reemerge. He can't hear anything over the rain now, and he's about to go searching for the other man. Jackson curses again this kid with which he's been saddled.
Reid appears; he slumps against the building and tips back his head to let the rainwater wash over his face, into his mouth. He spits, wipes at his lips with the handkerchief he's holding. Jackson pulls the girl over the handful of puddled paces to get back to the inspector's side.
It seems they'd made their exit from the scene just in time. Looking Reid over, Jackson begins to question if he can manage even the distance they've got left to the station. The authority and bravado are gone; he simply appears a man sick and exhausted. Jackson wonders how much energy it had cost him to put up that front back there. "Any better?" he asks, not truly expecting an honest answer.
"No," Reid surprises him.
It jars Jackson a bit. "So I'll add nausea to the list," he says lightly, attempting to cover his disquiet. Reid just stares at him; even involving only one eye his expression reads blatantly unamused. They're all getting soaked, and again Jackson feels he has no choice but to ask. "You want me to go ahead, get some help? Cuz I tell you, Reid – I am anxious as hell to rid myself of this kid."
"My legs are still functional." Despite the assertion, Reid doesn't look to be in a hurry to go anywhere, other than to shift himself around so the wall now stands tall at his back. Jackson peers at him, trying to judge if the loitering is because he's merely lethargic, or essentially incapable of walking.
Reid's unfocused gaze wanders off to Jackson's left; the inspector clears his throat. "Your name, child." It comes more of a request than Jackson would have demanded it, after all of the trouble she's brought them tonight.
Still the girl refuses to offer them anything that might hint at her assistance. Not even when Jackson can't keep himself from giving her arm an irritated rattle. She bares her teeth at him, the feral grin far from a friendly one; Jackson's unimpressed, and he puckers his lips into a snarky kiss.
"Are you two quite finished?" Reid grinds out. It seems he's more alert than Jackson's given him credit for.
The captain's hat blocks most of the rain from his face, but Reid's hair is plastered dark across his forehead. The water has at least rinsed some of the blood from his skin, though visibility makes the swollen area around his eye look no less grisly.
"You both want so badly to walk?" Jackson says. "Let's walk."
One hand on the girl and the other on Reid, Jackson does his best to steer them all down the vacant wet street. It soon becomes apparent this is not going to work. Between her lingering dreams of escape and the fact that she can hardly put any weight on her leg, the girl tugs jerkily and relentlessly in one direction. Reid, with his cockeyed sense of balance and veering course, continues to pull Jackson in the other. He feels stretched thin between them, a medieval method of torture. The assault from the sky does nothing to mitigate the sensation.
"Hang on," Jackson says, letting go of Reid's arm. He stops long enough to scoop the girl back up and get her readjusted over his shoulder; he's concerned that if he doesn't, they'll be out here all night. Reid ignores him, advancing generally if unsteadily forward. Jackson suspects it's at least in part motivated by the fear that he'll be unable to start up again if he stops.
As soon as their soles hit the cobblestones of Leman Street, Reid puts a deliberate distance between them. Act II, Jackson thinks, not missing the familiar set to Reid's shoulders. He almost groans aloud, but still he follows the man toward the front door.
He does groan a moment later. When the kid nails him in the back of the head with her elbow.
"Ow, fuck!" Jackson shouts, nearly dropping the girl. Reid's a few steps ahead, a stiff figure already holding open the door, and he hadn't been joking when he'd claimed to be more than ready to quit the brat. Jackson quickly carries her into the dry stationhouse, victory beckoning from the glowing gas fixtures.