Ficlet: "Finger crawl" (Ripper Street, PG)
Rating: PG
Category: M/M pre-slash
Fandom: Ripper Street
Relationship: Edmund Reid/Homer Jackson
Finger crawl
Summary: Reid’s shoulder injury is still a problem. Set a little after the end of Season 1.
“Long day?”
Jackson’s greeting comes from the chair in the corner of Reid’s office, and Reid acknowledges Jackson’s presence with a small nod. Jackson glances at Reid, jumps to his feet and points at Reid’s blood-spattered shirt. “Dangerous, as well?”
Reid shakes his head. “Burglars with crowbars. Drake made short work of subduing them.” He opens the bottom drawer of his desk, takes out the clean shirt he always keeps there, and frowns at Jackson, who is once more sprawled comfortably on the chair, a leg over an armrest. “Captain, may I request some privacy. I need to attend to my grooming.”
“Go right ahead, don’t mind me,” Jackson drawls. Then his voice changes, becomes a little lower, a little slower. “Reid. The last time I mentioned your shoulder, I ended up pinned against a wall.” He meets Reid’s glare evenly, grey-green eyes wide and cool, and adds, “Well, yeah, I may have mentioned something else that was private. But still.” He squares his shoulders and says firmly, “Let me see you raise your left arm.”
“Mind your own business,” Reid snaps, wondering why this American is the only man who can turn him from a calm, collected professional to a shouting bully in the space of a few seconds. He notices the set of Jackson’s jaw and decides that he can’t do battle with Jackson every time they work together - it’s up to wise men to choose their battles. Wordlessly he half-lifts his arm, managing not to let on how much even that movement cost him.
“Hm.” Jackson’s eyes narrow and then, before Reid can stop him, he steps in closer, reaches out, takes Reid’s elbow and bends it, gently but firmly. Pain races up Reid’s arm and shoulder, all the way to his neck; he sucks in his breath sharply. “You bastard,” he exhales.
“Wrong. My parents got married six months before I was born.” Jackson’s voice is mocking, but there’s warmth in it as well as professional authority. “Come on, Reid. You know I’m good. Strip.” A beat, a short laugh. “To the waist, I mean. If you please.”
“One of these days . . .” Reid does not finish his threat, strides to the blinds and closes them. Then - good arm first, bad arm second - he slides out of his jacket and waistcoat, pulls down his suspenders and slips off his shirt. The scars left by the molten steam pipe that came down on him on the deck of the Pride of Wapping have been seen and touched only by himself, Emily and Deborah Goren. Beside assorted doctors, that is. And Jackson, whatever else he undoubtedly is, is a surgeon, and a skilled one.
“Proceed,” he orders crisply.
Long, warm fingers start exploring his left side, from the base of his neck all the way down his biceps and elbow, skimming over discoloured, puckered flesh, probing carefully into the knots of melted sinews and muscles.
“Relax.” Jackson has moved behind Reid and has both hands on his back, pressing lightly on his shoulderblades. “Do nothing.” Another brief chuckle. “Try to do nothing. Let me do the work.”
He starts moving Reid’s arm backwards and forwards, bending it behind Reid’s back, stretching it sideways, pushing it upwards. He stops and nods every time Reid winces. Reid stands motionless, steeling himself not to grimace, to be patient. Forcing himself to let his duties wait for a few minutes. Accepting that he is in someone else’s care, letting himself be taken in hand. There’s unexpected gentleness in Jackson’s hands, which have ripped corpses apart and killed without hesitation. Hands that have also distilled, analysed, mixed - and stroked, caressed, given pleasure. As this last thought flashes through Reid’s mind, his flesh begins to stir, faintly, enjoyably. Reid’s eyes grow wide, and he abruptly tenses and shrugs the treacherous sensation away, which earns him sharp pains in three or four places and a light slap on his good shoulder. “I said let me do the work, Reid.”
Reid grunts agreement and turns his head sideways a little, willing the heat that has risen to his cheeks to subside.
“Ok,” Jackson says after a while. His hands linger on Reid’s shoulders for a long moment, then he wanders off, lights a cigarette and speaks through the smoke. “Look, of course there’s a lot of damage, but I think some movement could be restored if you are willing to do some work, and put up with some pain. Let me show you something easy to begin with. Over here.”
He stubs out the half-smoked cigarette, moves towards the office wall and stands sideways to it, his right arm an inch or so away from the wall. “Come stand opposite me.”
Reid complies; his left arm is next to the wall, a mirror image of Jackson’s. “Well?”
“At the Johns Hopkins they call it a finger crawl.” The fingers of Jackson’s right hand start moving slowly up the wall, towards the ceiling, until his arm is fully stretched. Then he stops, slowly brings his fingers back down, stops again, smirks. “Your turn.”
It’s far less easy than it looks. Reid’s shoulder starts burning before his arm is halfway up the wall. He keeps his face impassive as the twinges and stabs become one all-pervasive discomfort, trying to ignore it, trying to ignore Jackson’s eyes on him. Jackson’s keeping track of the progress of his fingers, but occasionally his eyes stray, to Reid’s chest, to a tuft of hair under an armpit, as far down as his waist, as far up as his neck. They’re only a few inches away from each other, eye to eye, smelling each other’s sweat and breath - almost like that other time, when Jackson mentioned things he shouldn’t have, and Reid slammed him against a wall and threatened to take a billy club to him.
Reid’s breath quickens a little at the memory. Jackson wasn’t afraid. His eyes went darker and he said just enough for Reid to realise that he had overstepped, and Reid released him, straightened his waistcoat and sent him on his way. Neither apologised. Neither referred to the incident until today. And yet it had stayed at the back of Reid’s mind, behind each impulse to tear Jackson apart, or lock him up for good, or find the right way of asking questions of him, or try to keep him safe.
Reid’s fingers have crawled up and down the wall. Not only has there been no improvement, but his whole left side is beginning to throb. He sighs and starts moving away when Jackson orders, “Again.”
“As you wish, Doctor,” Reid says between gritted teeth, and starts a second finger crawl. His best strategy against the pain is probably to concentrate on something else - the hole in the carpet, the dust on top of the bookshelf, the man standing opposite him. Jackson must have been wearing his shirt for the past week, and his waistcoat is a constellation of stains and smears - acid, gunpowder, mercurochrome, whisky and lamb stew. His eyes are between grey and brown, as they are when he’s studying poisons or explosives or bits of organs.
Why is the changing colour of Jackson’s eyes of any importance? Reid dismisses the thought: he’s just being inquisitive and observant, every decent policeman needs to be. But Reid is also determined to seek the truth, in every circumstance, and the truth is that if someone asked him what colour Drake’s eyes are, he’d have to guess. Blue, probably.
Jackson has gone back to sprawl in the corner chair; when the second finger crawl ends, he merely gestures up, again with one lazy forefinger. When he’s relaxed, like right now, his eyebrows are like circumflex accents; when he’s trying to look innocent and unaware of any misdeeds, his or anyone else’s, he raises one or both, and they’re semi-circles. And when he’s angry, they’re a thin straight line.
Reid has never noticed Drake’s eyebrows.
He has finished the third finger crawl, and the throbbing seems to be here to stay. “That’s enough,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. With his good arm, he reaches for his clean shirt.
“Oh no it ain’t.” Jackson watches Reid tuck his clean shirt in, button it, pull up his suspenders and slide into waistcoat and jacket, and his eyes are teasing, very green, very warm. “You gotta do at least three crawls, four times a day, for at least a week before we start seeing some results.”
“We?” When necessary, Reid can raise an eyebrow as well.
“Oh yeah. I’ll think of a new exercise every week , and see to it that you do them.”
Reid feels himself stir again for a fraction of a second. This will not do. “You will see to whatever it is that I tell you to, when I tell you.” He regrets the words at once. “Thanks,” he says with a nod; damn it, did his voice just sound a little wistful?
“Any time.” Jackson’s drawl is lighthearted, and any one who wanted to might read something like a suggestion in it. An invitation? To what?
Reid has outgrown old notions of sinfulness, but he still believes in decency and loyalty. And yet, some of the things he needs to do in order to protect society go against all his notions of decency. And the few times he visited Deborah at night were an offence not against any vows made before God, but against his loyalty to the woman who had chosen him as her lifetime companion, through bad times as well as good.
If he were ever to be disloyal to Emily with . . . another man, would it be the same offence, or a different one? Which would be the more serious? Reid closes his eyes, it’s in his nature to keep making hypotheses, but some are too messy, too difficult.
“Go home, Reid. You look plumb tuckered out.” Jackson delivers the last words in an exaggerated Yankee accent, pulls his long, wiry limbs out of the chair and heads for the door. In the doorway he turns and smiles, a quick appealing smile that for a second makes him look ten years younger and almost trustworthy. “Things’ll get better. You’ll see. Just put yourself in my hands.” Then he’s gone, the echo of his words still in the room, the ghosts of his fingers still on Reid’s skin.
Category: M/M pre-slash
Fandom: Ripper Street
Relationship: Edmund Reid/Homer Jackson
Finger crawl
Summary: Reid’s shoulder injury is still a problem. Set a little after the end of Season 1.
“Long day?”
Jackson’s greeting comes from the chair in the corner of Reid’s office, and Reid acknowledges Jackson’s presence with a small nod. Jackson glances at Reid, jumps to his feet and points at Reid’s blood-spattered shirt. “Dangerous, as well?”
Reid shakes his head. “Burglars with crowbars. Drake made short work of subduing them.” He opens the bottom drawer of his desk, takes out the clean shirt he always keeps there, and frowns at Jackson, who is once more sprawled comfortably on the chair, a leg over an armrest. “Captain, may I request some privacy. I need to attend to my grooming.”
“Go right ahead, don’t mind me,” Jackson drawls. Then his voice changes, becomes a little lower, a little slower. “Reid. The last time I mentioned your shoulder, I ended up pinned against a wall.” He meets Reid’s glare evenly, grey-green eyes wide and cool, and adds, “Well, yeah, I may have mentioned something else that was private. But still.” He squares his shoulders and says firmly, “Let me see you raise your left arm.”
“Mind your own business,” Reid snaps, wondering why this American is the only man who can turn him from a calm, collected professional to a shouting bully in the space of a few seconds. He notices the set of Jackson’s jaw and decides that he can’t do battle with Jackson every time they work together - it’s up to wise men to choose their battles. Wordlessly he half-lifts his arm, managing not to let on how much even that movement cost him.
“Hm.” Jackson’s eyes narrow and then, before Reid can stop him, he steps in closer, reaches out, takes Reid’s elbow and bends it, gently but firmly. Pain races up Reid’s arm and shoulder, all the way to his neck; he sucks in his breath sharply. “You bastard,” he exhales.
“Wrong. My parents got married six months before I was born.” Jackson’s voice is mocking, but there’s warmth in it as well as professional authority. “Come on, Reid. You know I’m good. Strip.” A beat, a short laugh. “To the waist, I mean. If you please.”
“One of these days . . .” Reid does not finish his threat, strides to the blinds and closes them. Then - good arm first, bad arm second - he slides out of his jacket and waistcoat, pulls down his suspenders and slips off his shirt. The scars left by the molten steam pipe that came down on him on the deck of the Pride of Wapping have been seen and touched only by himself, Emily and Deborah Goren. Beside assorted doctors, that is. And Jackson, whatever else he undoubtedly is, is a surgeon, and a skilled one.
“Proceed,” he orders crisply.
Long, warm fingers start exploring his left side, from the base of his neck all the way down his biceps and elbow, skimming over discoloured, puckered flesh, probing carefully into the knots of melted sinews and muscles.
“Relax.” Jackson has moved behind Reid and has both hands on his back, pressing lightly on his shoulderblades. “Do nothing.” Another brief chuckle. “Try to do nothing. Let me do the work.”
He starts moving Reid’s arm backwards and forwards, bending it behind Reid’s back, stretching it sideways, pushing it upwards. He stops and nods every time Reid winces. Reid stands motionless, steeling himself not to grimace, to be patient. Forcing himself to let his duties wait for a few minutes. Accepting that he is in someone else’s care, letting himself be taken in hand. There’s unexpected gentleness in Jackson’s hands, which have ripped corpses apart and killed without hesitation. Hands that have also distilled, analysed, mixed - and stroked, caressed, given pleasure. As this last thought flashes through Reid’s mind, his flesh begins to stir, faintly, enjoyably. Reid’s eyes grow wide, and he abruptly tenses and shrugs the treacherous sensation away, which earns him sharp pains in three or four places and a light slap on his good shoulder. “I said let me do the work, Reid.”
Reid grunts agreement and turns his head sideways a little, willing the heat that has risen to his cheeks to subside.
“Ok,” Jackson says after a while. His hands linger on Reid’s shoulders for a long moment, then he wanders off, lights a cigarette and speaks through the smoke. “Look, of course there’s a lot of damage, but I think some movement could be restored if you are willing to do some work, and put up with some pain. Let me show you something easy to begin with. Over here.”
He stubs out the half-smoked cigarette, moves towards the office wall and stands sideways to it, his right arm an inch or so away from the wall. “Come stand opposite me.”
Reid complies; his left arm is next to the wall, a mirror image of Jackson’s. “Well?”
“At the Johns Hopkins they call it a finger crawl.” The fingers of Jackson’s right hand start moving slowly up the wall, towards the ceiling, until his arm is fully stretched. Then he stops, slowly brings his fingers back down, stops again, smirks. “Your turn.”
It’s far less easy than it looks. Reid’s shoulder starts burning before his arm is halfway up the wall. He keeps his face impassive as the twinges and stabs become one all-pervasive discomfort, trying to ignore it, trying to ignore Jackson’s eyes on him. Jackson’s keeping track of the progress of his fingers, but occasionally his eyes stray, to Reid’s chest, to a tuft of hair under an armpit, as far down as his waist, as far up as his neck. They’re only a few inches away from each other, eye to eye, smelling each other’s sweat and breath - almost like that other time, when Jackson mentioned things he shouldn’t have, and Reid slammed him against a wall and threatened to take a billy club to him.
Reid’s breath quickens a little at the memory. Jackson wasn’t afraid. His eyes went darker and he said just enough for Reid to realise that he had overstepped, and Reid released him, straightened his waistcoat and sent him on his way. Neither apologised. Neither referred to the incident until today. And yet it had stayed at the back of Reid’s mind, behind each impulse to tear Jackson apart, or lock him up for good, or find the right way of asking questions of him, or try to keep him safe.
Reid’s fingers have crawled up and down the wall. Not only has there been no improvement, but his whole left side is beginning to throb. He sighs and starts moving away when Jackson orders, “Again.”
“As you wish, Doctor,” Reid says between gritted teeth, and starts a second finger crawl. His best strategy against the pain is probably to concentrate on something else - the hole in the carpet, the dust on top of the bookshelf, the man standing opposite him. Jackson must have been wearing his shirt for the past week, and his waistcoat is a constellation of stains and smears - acid, gunpowder, mercurochrome, whisky and lamb stew. His eyes are between grey and brown, as they are when he’s studying poisons or explosives or bits of organs.
Why is the changing colour of Jackson’s eyes of any importance? Reid dismisses the thought: he’s just being inquisitive and observant, every decent policeman needs to be. But Reid is also determined to seek the truth, in every circumstance, and the truth is that if someone asked him what colour Drake’s eyes are, he’d have to guess. Blue, probably.
Jackson has gone back to sprawl in the corner chair; when the second finger crawl ends, he merely gestures up, again with one lazy forefinger. When he’s relaxed, like right now, his eyebrows are like circumflex accents; when he’s trying to look innocent and unaware of any misdeeds, his or anyone else’s, he raises one or both, and they’re semi-circles. And when he’s angry, they’re a thin straight line.
Reid has never noticed Drake’s eyebrows.
He has finished the third finger crawl, and the throbbing seems to be here to stay. “That’s enough,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. With his good arm, he reaches for his clean shirt.
“Oh no it ain’t.” Jackson watches Reid tuck his clean shirt in, button it, pull up his suspenders and slide into waistcoat and jacket, and his eyes are teasing, very green, very warm. “You gotta do at least three crawls, four times a day, for at least a week before we start seeing some results.”
“We?” When necessary, Reid can raise an eyebrow as well.
“Oh yeah. I’ll think of a new exercise every week , and see to it that you do them.”
Reid feels himself stir again for a fraction of a second. This will not do. “You will see to whatever it is that I tell you to, when I tell you.” He regrets the words at once. “Thanks,” he says with a nod; damn it, did his voice just sound a little wistful?
“Any time.” Jackson’s drawl is lighthearted, and any one who wanted to might read something like a suggestion in it. An invitation? To what?
Reid has outgrown old notions of sinfulness, but he still believes in decency and loyalty. And yet, some of the things he needs to do in order to protect society go against all his notions of decency. And the few times he visited Deborah at night were an offence not against any vows made before God, but against his loyalty to the woman who had chosen him as her lifetime companion, through bad times as well as good.
If he were ever to be disloyal to Emily with . . . another man, would it be the same offence, or a different one? Which would be the more serious? Reid closes his eyes, it’s in his nature to keep making hypotheses, but some are too messy, too difficult.
“Go home, Reid. You look plumb tuckered out.” Jackson delivers the last words in an exaggerated Yankee accent, pulls his long, wiry limbs out of the chair and heads for the door. In the doorway he turns and smiles, a quick appealing smile that for a second makes him look ten years younger and almost trustworthy. “Things’ll get better. You’ll see. Just put yourself in my hands.” Then he’s gone, the echo of his words still in the room, the ghosts of his fingers still on Reid’s skin.