Ripper Street/Hung out to dry

[thirstforvice]

The day after Jackson pulled Drake from the boxing rings, neither of them go into the shop. Drake's too hurt to work, but the Captain knows he'd still try unless physically restrained. So that's what he does, keeping his lover as good as a prisoner in their own room. The day after that, he relents and they return to work together.

For a couple of days, all is fine, their arguings forgotten. They travel together both to and from Leman Street, taking advantage of the currently quiet calm of Whitechapel to stroll through the busy main streets, enjoying the market stalls and street acts. Of course, calms tend to come before storms, and after their few days of bliss, crime levels return to normal, and Jackson finds himself working in his dead room into the evening, with Drake headed home long since.

He makes his own way home long after the sun has set. Wanting to be in the warmth and comfort of Bennet's arms as soon as possible, he takes the quickest way home possible, cutting through the back alleys rather than walking the main streets. They're not always the safest of places, but he's well known in most of the local establishments and, as far as he's aware, no one (currently) bears him any grudges.

That's why he's taken so very much by surprise when the gaggle of men appear across his path, effectively blocking his path. At first, he assumes they must be waiting somebody behind him, but when he turns he finds himself quite alone, more men cutting off any hope of escape from behind. In the dim light, he notices a flash of colour on the breasts of his aggressors, and he remembers the boy who'd killed the toyseller, back when he'd first started working with Reid and Drake on a full time basis.

"I don't know what quarrel you good folks have with me," he tries his best to be friendly, hands raised high in submission. He does not see any reason for the Vigilance Men to target him, he's nothing but a good citizen (in public). "Perhaps you could explain."

"It's a sin, what you do," one of the men responds, bulkier than the others, clearly the ringleader. "These streets have sin enough without your sort adding to it."

"My sort?" Jackson drops his hands, defensive, not sure what these men mean but sure that he doesn't like it. "Y'know I'm far from the only Yankee walkin' these streets."

"We ain't talkin' about that," Ringleader spits. "We know what you get up to with that Sergeant. It's ungodly. It don't belong here. Not in London."

Jackson's blood runs cold. He doesn't know how these men know about his relationship with Drake, but he knows that they're serious. And that not only is he in danger, but Drake too. Maybe there's already another mob out after him, if they haven't found him already. Is he already too late?

He's one against ten, at least, and not made for fighting. He has his revolver, but he'd only manage to take down one or two before the others were on him. His only hope is in speed, reflexes. He'd survived many a beating back at Tenter Street thanks to those abilities. Slowly, he moves as if to raise his hands again, looking to submit, before at the last moment kicking his heels into the dirt and running full tilt for a gap between two mob members, hoping to break past and out into the main streets.

His ploy doesn't work, and next thing he knows he's on his back, heavy fists and heavier boots smashing into any and every body part they can find. He knows they mean to kill, and so only one solution now presents itself to him. Curling up as tight as he can manage, he forces himself to fall completely still, relaxing his muscles against the onslaught. It's agony like he's never experienced, but after a moment or two the battering stops. He hears the voices, discussing whether or not he's dead. One steel-capped boot finds his spine with a particularly hefty kick, and he bites hard on his lip to keep silent and limp. It does the trick, and after a few seconds the footsteps and voices start to retreat.

Jackson waits until he's sure they've gone, before slowly uncurling his broken body. Everything screams at him, and he knows a good many bones must be broken. But he cannot think on that now. He has to get to Drake, before the same happens to him. Or worse. Drake wouldn't think to play dead. He'd try and fight back.

He doesn't know how he makes it back home. He doesn't walk, he knows that, must have dragged himself along the ground. But then the door is there, and he manages to knock on it before the darkness takes him.

Comments

[thirstforvice]

"The... Men..." Jackson coughs and blood runs down his chin.

"Laudanum. Morphine. Please..."

[thegentlemanthug]

"The doctor's on his way with everything you need," Drake reassures him, the addictions forgotten in the face of such overwhelming suffering.

He reaches out tentatively with the corner of the sheet to wipe away the blood, trying so hard not to be afraid.

"Which men?"

[thirstforvice]

"Vigilant..." Jackson tries to reach for Drake's shirt, though cannot work his fingers to grip at it. Again, he coughs, more blood bubbling up over his lips. He's dying, he realises, though he feels strangely disconnected from the thought. His focus has to be on keeping Drake safe.

"Hide. R-Run. Don't... they'll find you... don't... don't let them, Benny..."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake cradles Jackson close, the blood alarming, but then the door bursts open to admit their doctor, barely dressed and panting.

And Drake knows where he must go. He carefully lowers Homer to the bed and stands.

"The Vigilance Men," he says quietly. He can do nothing for Homer now, nothing like what this surgeon can, and he has always been a man of action.

"I think I'll pay them a visit."

[thirstforvice]

"No, Benny... please..." Jackson tries to reach for him and hold him back, but his body won't obey, his hands won't clasp on the shirt that slips from between his fingers.

"Stop him..." he begs of the surgeon that takes his lover's place.

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake closes his ears to his lover's pleas, grabbing his coat and billy club and fleeing away down the stairs. His shirt and hands are coated in Jackson's blood and he is out for more - he will not rest until those vile men are brought to justice.

The night is cold but he does not feel it, anger hot in his veins, and he heads to where they patrol, fancy themselves protectors. He imagines his fist smashing against Lusk's grinning face and it drives away the images of Homer lying bloody and broken on their bed.

He doesn't have to look far to find them, gathering in a crowd between the pubs and whorehouses.

"And then we left him for dead!"

Without pausing for breath, Drake throws off his coat and charges, club raised. He smashes it down on one man's arm, earning his howl, before moving on to the next.

"It's the bent copper!"

"He's come to protect his moll."

The laughter is nasty and it fuels his ire, until his world is a blur of broken teeth and bloody noses. But he hadn't counted on reinforcements and when fresh arms lend themselves to the fight, Drake is dragged under in a sea of limbs attempting to throttle him.

Forced to his knees, his head is yanked back to look up at Lusk's crowing face. "You disgust me. What you do...it's a hanging offence. And so you'll swing for it."

Shouts of glee rise up from the assembled crowd and Drake is hauled along the streets, clawing and biting and fighting until his last breath. They knock him about with his own billy club until he can barely see straight, his still-healing ribs threatening to cave in from the blows.

Drake finds the cobbles of Leman Street beneath his feet and he almost cries with laughter at their arrogance. But the victory dies in his throat as a thick noose falls around his neck, the rope coiled around the sign for The Bear, and he knows that any rescue will be too late.

[thirstforvice]

Semi-conscious at best, Jackson still manages to work out the just of his surgeon's words. He wants to take him at once to the London, where he hopes that the medical staff will see him right. He knows, too, that that is truly his only hope now. But he will not let himself be carted off without first setting in motion Drake's own salvation.

"We go via Leman Street," he demands through bloody teeth. "Or I will die under your care, quack, and it will be... your failing." He knows enough about these English types to know that he will do whatever he can to save his reputation. It is easier even than he suspected to get the carriage to divert via the station, to alert Reid and his men that the Vigilance Men are at large and must be stopped.

The carriage ride is torture, every bump jolting at broken bones and mangled flesh, but Jackson survives it mostly conscious. Laid out in the back, he is just able to see the noose through the grimy window. Despite his injuries, he finds it in himself then to sit up and cry out for assistance.

[thegentlemanthug]

As a carriage rounds the corner, the men haul on the rope - and Drake is hanging above Leman Street.

He chokes, fingers clawing to get beneath the rope, to give him an inch, but in vain.

Vaguely, he hears the whistles of his comrades, spilling from the station. But the world is already starting to fade away.

[thirstforvice]

Unable to move, fading fast now, Jackson can only lie in the dark, hoping and praying that Drake is rescued in time. He can barely turn his head when the doors open and a heavy weight is placed at his side, but the smell is enough for him to know who lies next to him.

"Is he...?"

"Alive? Yes." The doctor's back too.

"Look after him." Jackson makes his last request before closing his eyes.

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake's throat is on fire. He struggles to bring air into his lungs, fighting for each breath, until the swaying motion around him comes to a halt.

"Get them inside! Inside!"

[thirstforvice]

The next thing Jackson is aware of, he's lying on an uncomfortable bed, looking at an unfamiliar ceiling. Every part of him is on fire, with every little movement he tries bringing tears of agony to his eyes.

But he is alive, and to be honest that was more than he was expecting.

"Drake!" He calls out in a voice hoarse from underuse. He has no idea how long he has been out for, nor what has become of his lover. "Bennet!"

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves looks over from where he holds the hanged man's neck, mild irritation on his face.

"Will you pipe down, sir? You do your friend no favours with your hollering."

Drake, for his part, is glad to hear his lover's voice and know that he lives.

[thirstforvice]

The voice is familiar, though Jackson cannot at once place it. He tries turning his head to look, but even that hurts too much.

"You do yourself no favours with that tone," he complains, loudly, instead. "Answer my questions, dammit. Where is Drake? Tell me."

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves fixed the man before him with the glare. "Do not even think of answering him."

The exasperated surgeon turns his attention back to the errant doctor. "He is beside you and he lives. Now quieten yourself and rest, sir!"

[thirstforvice]

"Fuck off," Jackson complains, forcing his body into a more upright position. The pain turns him pale as a ghost, but he manages to sit up enough to be able to see Drake in the next bed.

"Tell me what's wrong with him."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake immediately tries to reach for him - to force him down to the bed where he belongs - but Mr Treves has a firm hold of his head and is not letting go. "Try that again, Sergeant, and I will restrain you."

Treves realises he will have to deal with the American after all. "There is extensive swelling of the laryngeal tissues and I am attempting to ascertain if his spine is broken. And he suffers the same litany of injuries that you yourself bear, Captain."

[thirstforvice]

"Well, can he move his toes, his fingers?" Jackson reaches for his pockets with clumsy hands, looking for cigarette case and matches, finding neither.

[thegentlemanthug]

Before Treves can respond, Drake obligingly wiggles his broken fingers and flexes his ankles, his toes scrunching unseen inside his boots.

"Evidently," the surgeon says, dryly.

[thirstforvice]

"They hung him over the sign," Jackson continues, feeling strangely detached from the emotion of the event as he slips back into his work role.

"You ain't gonna drop anyone from so precarious a perch. Only way you'd do that is to string him up, and that ain't gonna break anything. Not enough force."

[thegentlemanthug]

Drake is relieved to hear it, eyes straining to see his lover, check he's not dying on him.

"Any other pointers, Captain?"

[thirstforvice]

"I'd double check for broken bones," Jackson replies haughtily.

"You've missed my wrist. God knows what else you've failed to set."

[thegentlemanthug]

Treves shoots Jackson a withering look.

"I was seeing to your colleague's more pressing injury, Captain. If you would but lie still, I will have your wrist set directly. Keep on in this vein, however, and you may find your jaw wired shut instead."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson scowls at the other doctor for that remark, resenting him all the more for the fact that he is keeping him from his own duty to Drake. It feels like a violation, to have someone else tend to him.

"I do not need to be still," he complains, and rashly tries to remove himself from the bed. His right leg, however, has other ideas, sending agony screaming through him when he tries to move it. The pain is enough to silence even Homer Jackson.

[thegentlemanthug]

With a quick jerk of his head, two orderlies are dispatched to stop Captain Jackson going himself further injury. The bottle of laudanum is offered soon after, and Treves hopes the man knocks himself out with it.

"If you wish to remain in the same room as your friend, you will be still and quiet while I work."

[thirstforvice]

Jackson takes great offence to being manhandled back down into his bed, though he doesn't try to fight back. For a start, it hurts too much, and he knows he'd never win anyway.

He reaches for the bottle of laudanum without thinking, the bottle at his lips before he catches himself. He won't do that, not now, not with Drake lying right next to him. With considerable effort, he pushes the bottle away.