See part one for notes and disclaimers.
Artherton's sweeping glance takes in all three of them; he tracks their squelching approach toward the desk. Jackson dumps his captive at the feet of the nearest uniformed officer. It's done gently enough. Though admittedly it could have been more so.
He straightens, and Artherton's attention swings from Reid's face to affix Jackson with something uncomfortably close to a glower. "Don't look at me like that, Sergeant," he warns. "None of this blame can be laid at my door." Artherton looks back to Reid, checking to see if the inspector will confirm this.
But Reid has a different focus. "Find the child a cell where she will not be bothered. Food. A blanket." The officer now holding the girl moves to do as he is bid; Reid shifts to be able to see Jackson. "Examine her there. I would know the extent of her injuries. Attempt to ascertain their cause."
"Sure," the captain agrees. "But first things first."
He would not have thought Reid capable of holding himself any more stiffly, but at Jackson's words he accomplishes it. There's no possibility that the man does not understand exactly to what it is that he refers. Reid's cycloptic expression narrows itself into an approximation of a glare, but it's lopsided and Jackson knows mostly bluster. The captain refuses to flinch.
Reid's rescued, however inadvertently, by an interruption from his desk sergeant. "The charges, Inspector?" Artherton asks.
"Theft, I suspect," the inspector answers, though he does not shift his stare from Jackson's. "Lusk will arrive in the morning to stand accuser. Earlier than we would like, no doubt."
Something flickers in his look, and there's a blink that lasts a beat longer than it should. Reid swallows, abruptly breaks the eye contact. He brushes against Jackson's sleeve as he moves past him, heading for the stairs to his office and evidently hoping to evade further scrutiny from anyone.
But just as Jackson has no intention of letting Reid hole himself away, Artherton does not want to let him go so easily either. "You wish to keep her overnight unregistered, sir?" he calls to Reid's back. Phrased as question, but undeniably protest.
"On my responsibility, Sergeant," Reid rasps, without turning around.
He pauses for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, his hand on the railing, and it's here that Jackson decides to wage battle. He's at Reid's side before the other man can take the first step. "No way. Not a chance." He keeps his voice low, a whisper hissed and irritated. He's tired too, and water runs from his sleeves to drip from his fingers. "We go to the deadroom."
"You have your instruction, Captain. I suggest you see to it."
Jackson can feel Reid trembling just standing this close to him, without even needing to touch the man. He's impressed with the display of sheer will power that Reid's putting on, but in the end there's no way a stiff upper lip is going to trump the physical state of him. "You're with me, Reid. Or I'll make such a scene we'll have the whole stationhouse in here as witness."
A threat, and probably one he'll see retribution for. It may pay off in broad strokes, but even should Reid come quietly Jackson has no illusions about the outlook now for his mood. Best case scenario, the captain's looking forward to sulky and silent. Worst case, Jackson's going to end up fired and freezing his ass in a cell.
But the statement has been made. Sometimes you've got no option but to go all in, and he knows that when you do you have to stand firm behind it. Jackson keeps himself more to Reid's right, wanting to be certain the other man can see that he's deadly serious in this; he waits Reid out, resting a hand on the bannister between them. It's an intentionally casual stance, crafted with purpose. If the inspector decides to take a sudden header into the floor, Jackson wants the best shot at stopping him.
He wonders what this discussion must look like to everyone else.
Reid's pale as paper, and it highlights the old bruises on his neck. The blossoming new ones on his face. Out of the rain, the split by his eyebrow has begun to bleed again. A thin trickle of soupy red, diluted by the water still dripping from his hair.
"Very well," Reid says, his voice measurably rougher than before. This time Jackson catches a wince accompanying his almost convulsive swallow, and he kicks himself for not truly questioning before now just how deep all that bruising around Reid's throat really goes. "My office," Reid specifies wearily.
"Uh-uh," Jackson counters. "Mine."
"You have no office, man. Merely workspace."
"Tomato, tomahto," Jackson says with a shrug. "It's the accent. Twists lotsa words to sound different."
Reid exhales in a little huff of air, and Jackson honestly can't determine if the noise rings amused or frustrated. Probably the latter. The distinction matters less a few seconds later, when Reid mumbles something that sounds absurdly like sassafras, and sags forward into the bannister.
"Shit. Reid…" So much for his plan. As he swings around to the other side of the railing, he can see they've already got at least two well-meaning uniforms headed their direction. Artherton out from behind the desk and with them. He'd threatened a scene – and would have followed through if need be – but it had never been what he'd wanted.
Reid's not completely out cold, and Jackson counts himself grateful for that. But his grasp of things still looks a touch slippery. Being careful to place himself as best he can between Reid and any onlookers, Jackson turns to face the approaching men.
"I've got it. No cause for alarm." He throws up both his hands and a hapless smile, in a deliberately clownish combination. "Told him I was looking into joining the force. Needs a minute to recover."
The two younger officers appear confused, but they do not verbally question; Jackson makes shooing motions at them, and after a shared glance they scurry away. The rumor mill will have to be dealt with later. Artherton is less easy to dissuade, trying to get a glimpse around him to the inspector, but Jackson grabs his attention with a hand on his shoulder. He waits until the sergeant focuses on him, and says seriously, "Artherton. I'll handle it."
Artherton looks skeptical, but slowly he nods. "If I can be of assistance…" he offers generally, heading back toward the desk. Still throwing concerned glances their way.
"You'll be the first one I shout for," Jackson mutters, already turning to Reid.
He's in a position that can only be loosely termed sitting, a slump of limbs against the railing on one of the lower stairs. He presses the heels of his hands into his forehead as if he seeks to create another bruise. Jackson crouches in front of the man, pleased that Reid looks up when he says his name.
The captain's less thrilled with the obvious disorientation. "Jackson? What…?" Reid's words feel sticky, dragging and sleepy. He moans softly through his teeth, a hand returning to his forehead, and the fact that he doesn't immediately jump up and insist that all is well speaks volumes.
Jackson pushes his hat back on his head for a better view, and a stream of water slips cold down the length of his neck. He scowls and shifts his shoulders, his only concession to the annoyance. "I know you're hurting, Reid," he says quietly, trying to keep his voice from drifting anywhere beyond these stairs. Artherton's still watching them, at least; Jackson is certain of this without needing to turn around. "But I also know you're loathe to collect an audience. And you can bet that's exactly what's gonna happen if we don't get you up and out of here."
"Where?" Jackson had expected more of a reaction; Reid's lips barely move. He does not lift his head from his hand.
"Your precious stationhouse, Reid." He's worried that this is information that needs to be supplied. "About ten feet distant from Artherton, who I'd wager is about ten minutes from sending for aid from the hospital."
Jackson thinks some of this might be getting through; Reid drops his hand now, but still doesn't look up. The inspector licks his lips, swallows. "The Vigilance Men. We located the child?"
He might as well have punched Jackson in the jaw, the icy wave of shock that washes over the captain. Jackson releases a slow breath, runs a hand over his face. He can't resist a glance back at Artherton, who is indeed watching them as expected.
"Yeah," he tells the inspector. "We found the kid. You able to stand?"
Reid nods, straightens up enough to reach for the bannister. His left shoulder doesn't want to cooperate, and the motion fails to see itself through. Reid hisses as his arm falls useless; he lists that direction, and Jackson winces when the wound at his brow connects with the splintered railing post.
Reid doesn't appear to have noticed. He leaves his head where it's landed, bleeding sluggishly onto the dark wood. "If you can't," Jackson continues, "I'm gonna get some help and carry you outta here. And I'm certain you don't want that."
It's taking every ounce of control Jackson has to give Reid this minute, to not simply haul him up and out of here, away to Jackson's own territory of clean steel and better light. He tries to use it instead to suss out any clues he may have missed. He thinks he's going to have to put a stitch or two in that gash in Reid's head.
"Last chance," Jackson says. "Dealer's choice."
A stretch, perhaps, to say that Reid looks more aware. But he's blinking again, and Jackson's on the receiving end of another vague nod. He pushes himself out of his cramped squat, pulls Reid up with a hand on his bicep. Jackson refuses to release him even once he's on his feet, but Reid makes no effort to separate himself. The captain keeps the other man close, both to the strengthen the support and to make it less obvious.
"So far, so good," Jackson murmurs near Reid's ear, scoping out the space and the bodies in it. "Not lookin' to lie, though – this next bit's gonna be a damn sight less fun."
Jackson tosses Artherton a look that's supposed to be reassuring, leading Read on the most direct path possible toward their goal. He isn't entirely sure the inspector understands where they are yet, but he seems clear on what they're trying to accomplish right now, at least. "That's the way. One foot in front of the other," Jackson encourages anyway.
No uniforms he can see, as they progress down the corridor, but he can feel eyes all the same. It's not particularly crowded with either employed or incarcerated around here at the moment, but there are still enough people about; it doesn't have to be a slow night for something like this to be the most interesting thing going. Reid's an automaton beside him, his gaze sweeping no higher than the floor. Moving relentlessly forward under Jackson's guidance, his feet mostly tracking.
Mostly. A couple of stumbling missteps have Jackson relieved when he catches first sight of the deadroom door. "Nearly there," he says.
There's a chill to the empty tiled room after having been shut up most of the evening; he holds Reid in place with one hand while using the other to tip a stack of books off the seat of a chair. Jackson drops the legs back flat on the floor and the wooden feet clatter as they settle. The rain beats against the windows. He wrestles Reid into the chair and fires up the overhead lights.
Jackson ditches his hat, shrugs out of the soaked leather jacket. Gathers up the items he might need. When he rejoins the inspector, Reid's slumped far enough to the left that he looks in danger of sliding out of the chair. Jackson readjusts him closer to upright. Sets his supplies on the vacant table beside them.
They hadn't had Carmichael's body for long, everyone involved anxious to put the ugly affair behind them. The unoccupied slab gives Jackson a decent place to perch while he mops superficially at Reid's hair and skin with a towel. The inspector's quiescence is disturbing.
"Hell of a performance back there." Jackson cleans the new blood off Reid's face, along with a few tiny wood shavings from the stairs. "You recollect any of it?"
"Vigilance Men." Both of his eyes are closed now, his lips a thin line. "The girl."
It's embarrassing how much joy it brings Jackson to hear this. He clears his throat, irons out his grin. "Give the man a cigar," he says roughly, trying to pull it together. They've got bigger issues here than just memory loss, and he needs to find a little distance.
"What about the rest?" he asks, reaching for the needle and thread. "Can you put a name to the place where you sit?"
Reid cracks his eye open at this; it's the only part of his head in motion as his look darts about the room. "Deadroom," he mumbles. He spies Jackson holding the needle over a flame, and he deliberately closes the eye again. "Although…"
"Go on," Jackson says when he doesn't.
"The details. They are somewhat unclear."
"Yeah, well – if they sharpen, you may curse their return. Gotta break it to you, Reid: your encore show was not as much of a success."
Jackson rests a hand in Reid's damp hair, to steady his head and to let him know what's coming. The needle goes easily through the skin after the initial resistance, and Jackson's close enough to hear Reid's teeth squeak as they grind together. "Elaborate," Reid chokes out, as the first stitch goes in.
"Doesn't matter."
"Captain…"
Jackson suspects this tone is meant as persuasive warning, but it vibrates somewhere nearer to a plea. He tries to concentrate on what he's doing, eyes bleary with his own fatigue and feeling in dire need of a cigarette. Two stitches in; he opts to go with one more.
He waits to speak until he's pulled the needle through. "You folded at the foot of the stairs," Jackson tells him, "midway through a fairly tedious argument about semantics."
As he'd anticipated, Reid's reaction to this involves a startled shift of the man's eyebrows; he gasps now as it tugs violently at the stitches, and had Jackson's hand not been placed where it is, he'd have yanked out the fresh needlework when tries instinctively to jerk his head away from the pain.
Jackson holds Reid motionless until he stills under his hand; he gently tilts his head back again so he can finish his task. "Witnesses," Reid grunts. "How many?"
The captain shrugs, the gesture as nonchalant as he can make it even if Reid's not really looking. He sets down the needle and grabs a pair of small scissors. Clips off the end of the thread. "Artherton. Couple of your boys." He decides to leave out the dozen or so in the cells.
Reid groans; free from Jackson's ministrations for the moment, his head returns to the cradle of his hands. Jackson watches him as he fishes out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He lights it, and the first rush of smoke down his throat is by far the best thing he's experienced all day.
"And as you can plainly see, Reid, the stars did not fall from their heavens. Nor the earth stop its spin. It'll be alright." The smoke twines itself into matching streams as Jackson exhales through his nose. "They'll get past it, and so will you."
The inspector does not dispute this, but neither does he agree. Knowing the man as he has come to, Jackson suspects his attitude leans toward the first. As with the old injury he thinks to hide from the world, this man is exceptionally stubborn in regard to keeping up a pretense of all is well. It's only been a matter of months, and Jackson's already frustrated with Reid's insistence on invincibility.
He stubs out the cigarette. When he turns back to Reid, the toe of his boot splashes in a tiny pool of water; it drips from Reid's coat, the cuffs of his trousers. It instantly reminds Jackson of how wet he still is himself, and as he shivers he can feel the heavy fabric of his clothes clinging to his skin.
"Okay, Reid. Time to strip."
The phrasing is intentional, designed to get Reid's attention. An undeniable success; the inspector looks up from his hands, the eye not swollen shut absorbed completely in the question. "I beg your pardon?"
"Coat," Jackson says, with a flicker of a grin. "Off."
"Ah." Silence. Reid seems to be considering this, like it's a problem of philosophical standards. Jackson's grin vanishes as the words brain damage flash bright in the back of his mind. "No," Reid says slowly. "I –"
As much to shut up his own thoughts as Reid's, Jackson gets things moving. He hunches in front of the inspector in his chair, begins to carefully tug the waterlogged wool from his frame. Reid neither helps nor hinders, but somewhere in the process he ends up with his head buried dead-weight in Jackson's shoulder. The unfamiliar surrender of it all sets the captain's teeth crashing hard together in his jaw.
Bit his tongue too, and Jackson tries to focus on this irritation so as to beat back some of the swirling, useless fear. He gets Reid's sodden coat completely off; it slaps a soaked lump where he tosses it onto the steel table. Hanging half over the side, because acting as the inspector's support hinders his throw in both angle and leverage. Jackson remains in this awkward position a few moments longer, absently watching the new puddle taking shape under where the dripping has been relocated. He works to plot out the best course of action.
"Reid…" Jackson murmurs, when he manages to rouse himself. The clumped strands of damp hair shift over one another on top of the inspector's head as he stirs. Jackson guides Reid to sit back in the chair; the man's expression reads dazed and bewildered.
"Forgive me. I –"
"World still hasn't ended, Reid," Jackson says, fingers moving to unknot the inspector's tie. The fact that Reid allows him to do it fails to make Jackson feel any better about anything. He loosens the buttons securing the high collar, peels it away a little to peek at the bruising. Lets it fall back into place, deciding that the most sensible strategy here is one fight at a time.
Reid now stares in the general direction of Jackson's sternum, the upsetting blankness taken full hold. Jackson tips up Reid's chin, strikes a match. He holds it close to the inspector's good eye to gauge the response of his pupil; the unexpected vehemence with which Reid pulls away sends the chair teetering beneath him, and Jackson hooks one of the legs with his foot to keep the thing stable. He blows out the match, flicking the stick to the floor.
"Truth," he demands. "How do you feel?"
Reid's not looking at him, though Jackson is unsure if the classification should fall under can't or won't. His gaze lingers on the tiles under their shoes. "A headache," he says. As if that's all there is.
Jackson waits for more, but there's nothing. "Yeah, I'm aware of the headache. You got something to expand on that?"
The trembling has only grown worse; Jackson realizes he should be grateful that this escalation had held off long enough for him to get the stitches in. Divested of his overcoat, a cycle of full blown shudders race through the man. "Cold," Reid admits needlessly.
Jackson can feel the early sparks of a headache of his own forming. He lights up another cigarette. "Fine. You seek to play games here? Then I'll commence guessing."
"Such a comfort," Reid says hoarsely. "To hear those words spoken by a surgeon."
The inspector's attempt at humor might bring him more solace were Jackson not so tired, so frustrated. So drenched. "Then take pity and offer a man some assistance, Reid. Vertigo? Blurred vision? Still nauseous?"
"Yes."
Jackson almost asks to which the answer is directed, before understanding that Reid means it to stand for all of them. And that, really, he'd already known this. He supposes he figured there was some hope that here, with a little time and a lot less rain, the situation may have miraculously improved.
"Okay," he stalls, appreciating the honesty but uncertain as to how much he's able to do. He's stopped the bleeding – at least any external, his brain pipes up unhelpfully – and until the swelling recedes it's something of a wait-and-see. "Okay. Don't you move."
Jackson leaves him to duck out into the hall, and at the opening of the door a knot of people loitering at the end of the corridor scrambles into an awkward scatter. They trip over each other in their hurry to appear to be on their way elsewhere; the one left abandoned in the chaos has the misfortune of looking up and catching Jackson's eye.
"Kid," he calls, motioning the uniform over. He doesn't have a name for this one, should spend more time committing these rarely interacted with blues to memory. He'd done his diligence when he'd first started spending time here, had made a point of speaking to all of them at least once. But too easily his focus had narrowed in on Reid and Reid alone, and at some point he'd allowed a few of the finer details to slide. "C'mere."
The young officer obeys, though he looks as if he expects reprimand over instruction. "Run over to The Bear," Jackson says, when he's near enough to converse in normal tones. "Get ice."
"Sir?" Whatever he had dreaded, it was not this. There's a fleeting moment where Jackson ponders what kind of reputation he might have around here.
"Ice," he repeats, directing a punctuating exhale of cigarette smoke into the kid's face. "Go. You." He doesn't wait for answer before returning to the deadroom and closing the door.
Jackson thinks Reid exactly as he had been, but he sees now that both eyes are closed, his chin hanging toward his chest. As he rounds the chair to stand in front of the man, the compressed line of his lips and the hands fisted in his lap tell Jackson that he's not sleeping. But not unconscious either, and for that the captain's thankful.
Reid looks less likely to share this sentiment. Discomfort and exhaustion etched into every line of him.
"Hey," Jackson says softly, nudging Reid's good shoulder with two fingers. "You got a blanket up in your office? A hidden cache of spare clothing?"
Reid's eye blinks open languidly; he moves reflexively to push himself up. Jackson expends almost no effort to hold him to the chair.
"Don't need to stand to answer a simple question, Reid." Jackson drops his cigarette, crushes it out under his heel. It sizzles when it hits the splattered water on the floor. "Not a need to go anywhere. Just looking to get you more comfortable."
"Perhaps," Reid answers sluggishly. "Unlikely."
Jackson wonders about the role of the man's wife in all this, if she's missing him and expecting him home. If the right thing to do isn't just to turn the inspector over to her care. He doesn't ask Reid's opinion. Jackson learned early that Emily Reid is yet another subject implicitly but perpetually off limits.
"I'll turn something up," he says, mostly to himself. If need be, he'll steal the one they gave the girl in the cell. And what Reid doesn't know won't hurt him.
"I suspect…" Reid begins, and it sounds as if he struggles to prevent the words from slurring together, "I suspect, Captain, you've done all you can. No… no need to concern yourself further."
"Sure, Reid. Goodnight and I'll see you tomorrow."
Jackson doesn't move from his position, underlining the sarcasm with his stance. Reid sighs wearily, and the breath strangles into a weak cough. His arms wrap his torso in a twisted hug now, as he tries futilely to rub some warmth into his upper body.
"And your plan?" Jackson asks, when Reid does not respond. "Remain in here? Because though I haven't yet found opportunity to test it, I can assure you that this autopsy slab is fit bed for no man still breathing." He raps on the table with his knuckles. "No give."
"I shall return to my office. I have work."
Jackson wonders if he can hear how ridiculous this sounds, in light of current circumstance. "And I have a waiting bed warmed by at least one beautiful and willing woman. But you've heard no complaint from me."
"You are a source of endless complaint." Reid coughs again, curls somehow further in on himself. "Regardless of subject." Jackson can hear the inspector's teeth chattering. He realizes the rain must have stopped.
"It's already plain you adore me, Reid. No cause to go to such lengths to try and mask it." Jackson's tentatively encouraged by the conversation, the coherent if slowly strung sentences. Enough that he deems it safe to leave the man a few moments while he's off on his search for a blanket. "I'll be right back," Jackson tells him. "Stay here. Make a start at getting out of those wet things."
Reid neglects to even acknowledge this instruction. Jackson had anticipated at least a token protest; he exits the room, feeling a bit unbalanced when it doesn't come.
The corridor is ostensibly empty this go around, and Jackson wanders all the way back out to Artherton's desk without seeing an officer. He has no idea what's taking that uniform so long to get ice, thinks he should have just gone himself. Jackson wastes too many minutes deflecting the sergeant's questions before he can make his request for the blanket. By the time he finally has it in his hands, he's anxious to get back to his deadroom.
He swings open the door, and Reid is not in the chair; the surprise of this stretches the seconds until he locates him. Hunched over the long double sink across the room, the curve of his back a whimper miserable and shaking. The folded blanket lands on the abandoned seat where Jackson drops it. He crosses to the inspector, and over here the air is tinged slightly sour.
Reid's elbows are locked in his grip on the porcelain edge, and they look desperate in their wavering efforts to hold him up. The dark hair that had been drying is damp again with sweat. There can't possibly be anything left in his stomach to expel, but his body tries pointlessly all the same. Jackson returns to where they were, retrieves the blanket and chair. Sets them beside where Reid's standing, one slung over the other.
When Reid's arms decide they're tired of supporting him, his legs immediately follow suit. This time Jackson reacts quickly enough to divert his collapse into the wooden chair rather onto the waiting tile floor.
"So tell me, Inspector – you feeling like a man in a state capable of contemplating work?"
"My worry," Reid mumbles, resting the uninjured side of his face against the smooth new sink, "not yours."
He lifts a quivering investigative hand toward the stitches; Jackson gently bats it away. "Nothing lacking in my skills with a needle – keep your fingers out of it." Jackson studies the work himself, leaning over the slouched inspector and trying to see around his own shadow. "Suspect you won't even see much of a scar, despite all your fidgeting."
"Mmph," is what it sounds like Reid says.
"C'mon. I want to get that jacket off, at least." He makes a swipe for Reid's sleeve, catches the cuff with a finger.
"You seem… seem determined, Captain. To separate me… from my clothing." Reid's lips brush against the porcelain as they force out the words.
"Tell yourself whatever you want, Reid. Up."
This time Reid attempts to offer his assistance, and it only serves to make the entire procedure more complicated. A tangle of fabric and limbs, and by the time the jacket is off the inspector again looks decidedly nauseous. Jackson reaches for the buttons of his shirt, thinking it best to get this all done in one go. Reid's fingers grope blindly through the air for a moment before closing around his.
"Enough," he croaks. "Leave me be."
It has none of the power of demands made earlier in the night, and Jackson would have ignored it were it not for the knock on the door. "What?" he growls, spinning that way.
The door is cracked open; the uniformed kid peeks around it. Jackson crosses to him, pushing him out of the room through deliberate invasion into his personal space. Backing him out into the hallway, he doesn't miss Reid's lurch out of the chair to hang again over the edge of the sink.
The inspector knocks over the chair in his haste to get up, and the kid's eyes widen at the sudden clamor. He can't see into the deadroom now, but he doesn't appear at all consoled by the choked retching that floats out from inside. Jackson plucks the cloth-wrapped bundle from his hands. "Thanks," he remembers to say. "Now scat."
He closes the door on the kid, distantly surprised when it slams hard enough to rattle the panes.
Reid clings to the edge of the sink, his posture swaying and dubious. Jackson hurries to right the chair. He presses Reid down into it, shakes out the blanket and drapes it over the man's shoulders. He's still wearing his wet shirt, but Jackson's thinking that particular fight may have to be conceded.
When he brings the ice up to Reid's eye, the inspector's entire body flinches. A second later, some of the rigid lines shaping his frame begin to melt. A moan borne of pure relief escapes him.
"Yeah, I had a notion that might help. Can you hold this?"
He doesn't open his eye, but Reid's arm comes up in an effort to comply. Jackson directs his hand around the lumpy bundle. His back complains when he straightens.
"Just a bit more," Jackson promises, "and I'll see you home. Gotta go look in on the girl."
He doesn't want to; the way she was getting around out there, he figures she's probably fine to sit until morning. But she's just a kid – brat or no – and she's probably hurting. And scared. He can take a couple of minutes to try and alleviate one of those, at least.
Reid's free hand slips under the blanket and his open collar to rub at his throat, and Jackson feels a new twinge of sympathy. That bruising can't make any of this more pleasant, not by a long shot. "Listen, Reid," he hears himself say, "in regards to the other night. I need you to know – whatever might've been said, or done… There was no malice in it."
The inspector's hand freezes around his throat. Falls to lay on his thigh. "We've had this discussion already, Jackson" comes an exhausted murmur. "See to the child."
The captain has no wish to delve into it either, had not intended to bring it up. He takes the opportunity Reid offers him, feeling in too much of a hurry to leave the room.
The kid's fine, as it turns out, though no less difficult to handle. She doesn't seem to relate the man who'd hauled her through the streets over his shoulder with any kind of solace or salvation; it takes fifteen minutes before Jackson gives up on trying to coax her from the corner and just picks her up and drops her onto the thin bed. He's a lot bigger than she is, and motivated by a need to get this done quickly. In the extra five minutes of wrestling it takes to get her leg unbent and uncovered, the only thing he can think about is the possibility of finding Reid sprawled unconscious on his deadroom floor.
Some heavy bruising, a few superficial cuts that have already stopped bleeding. It looks like it hurts, but he can feel nothing broken. He'll check in on her tomorrow, assuming they've still got her in custody after Lusk has come through. She watches him, silent and untrusting, pulling as far away from him as she can when he releases her and gets to his feet.
"Get some sleep, kid," he tells her, walking out of the cell. One of the officers comes out from behind his desk to lock it, and Jackson gives him a nod on his way out of the block.
He's keen to get back to Reid, but first he heads to Artherton. Jackson leans an arm on the tall desk, keeps his voice low. "Reid's gonna call it a night," he says casually. It seems as if the amount of people in here has doubled, maybe a shift change. The clock over Artherton's head reads later than he'd thought. "I'll get him home – find us a hansom, wouldya? And see if you can do anything about… this." He waves his hand toward all the new milling bodies.
He sees understanding in Artherton's eyes, and he's grateful for it. He leaves him to the tasks; Jackson hears the man's gruff voice behind him as he heads off down the corridor. "Alright you lot, you don't live here. Time to get home – you've got to face your wives sometime. And the rest of you: you're on duty, not socializing…"
He relaxes a little when he finds Reid still where he left him, though there's not much comfort to be had in the sight. Reid holds the ice to his eye, but he's doubled over so as to be able to balance his left elbow on his knee and make the connection without having to lift his arm. The blanket hangs precariously from his shoulders, slipping with every shuddering inhalation, and he looks more unidentifiable lump than man.
Surprisingly Reid puts up no further debate about going home, other than an intractable insistence that his exit be made in his sodden suit jacket instead of the blanket. It's as much of a hassle to get him back into it as it was out, the wet fabric weighted and catching on itself, but Jackson stows any argument in favor of putting an end to this exhibition. He gathers up the blanket, his hat and Reid's dripping overcoat, and is struggling into his own jacket before the inspector makes it to the door.
Artherton has done his job, and there are few to be seen. Not that Reid seems to notice; he shuffles along on his own, but it's plainly taking all of his concentration to do so. Jackson walks a buffer on the inspector's left side, and there's a smear of water across his leather sleeve from where Reid bumps continuously into him.
Reid stops near Artherton's desk, a slow motion half stumble. Jackson waits while he addresses his desk sergeant. "Artherton. I shall… return in the morning." It's spoken to the flat desk top rather than to the sergeant, and Jackson and Artherton share an unseen look over the crown of Reid's head.
"Yes, sir," is all Artherton says.
There's a hansom outside as he'd requested, mist steaming from the horse's nostrils as it snorts and stomps in the cold. Jackson clambers in first, pulls Reid up. The other man slumps onto the narrow seat with a groan; the captain spreads the blanket over his legs, disregarding a noise that might be meant as protest. That last trek through the station has clearly eaten through any energy Reid had in reserve, and Jackson can't say whether or not he dozes as they ride through the puddled streets.
He rouses as they roll to a halt in front of his house, blinking confused. "Home," Jackson tells him. "Get inside and go to bed."
Reid's movements are hampered by pain and his damaged equilibrium, but he eventually disembarks on his own. Jackson hands his coat down, noting that only one lamp lights the windows behind him. "Thank you, Jackson," he manages. "I am in your debt."
"Forget it, Reid. I told you you wouldn't know what to do without me."
Jackson watches until the door closes behind him. Lighting a cigarette, he directs the driver toward Tenter Street.
end.