Capt. Homer Jackson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thirstforvice) wrote2013-11-02 11:02 pm
thirstforvice) wrote2013-11-02 11:02 pm
Entry tags:
Ripper Street/Hung out to dry
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.
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.
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He sees another headed for Jackson, seizing a glass bottle. With a roar, Drake flings himself across his lover, the glass shattering across his broad shoulders instead of Homer's head.
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"HELP!" He yells, hopelessly, realising that no one is coming to their aid after all.
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It is soon over, the three men handcuffed and led away. Drake slowly tries to shift away, but the skin of his back tears and stings from the rain of broken glass.
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He doesn't want Drake so far away from him. Not now.
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Treves wades into the chaos of his hospital room, crossing to where his two patients are huddled together, one obviously bearing fresh injuries.
"Sergeant, you must let me suture those wounds immediately."
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He wishes he could curl up in his bed, hide until daylight finds them again and keeps them safe. But he cannot, and instead he must endure the blank ceiling and the horrendous vulnerability he feels.
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"You're as hurt as I am."
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The sting at his back causes him to tighten his grip on Homer's fingers, the only outward sign of his pain.
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"Don't talk. Don't hurt yourself."
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Treves finishes his work and binds the fresh wounds. "You were fortunate they were not deeper. Some were very close to the spine."
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"Have you any complaints, Captain?" Treves says in a cutting tone.
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"None," he accepts Treves' handiwork.
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"Your colleagues have requested to be present inside the room, in case of further attack. I trust this is acceptable?"
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He won't allow anyone to hurt Homer again.
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"You should go back to bed," he tries again to coax his lover back to bed. "We should both be sleeping."
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They both know that they will need Drake's protection tonight.
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"Are you comfortable, at least?"
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He merely nods, leaning more of his weight on the chair back flush against his chest.
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"As you will," he concedes, trying in vain to find some comfort for himself instead.
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He will see Jackson through whatever Hell may follow so long as he rests easy now.
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"Had too much already. Not going through all that crap again."
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Before looking guiltily at his lover.
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