Fic: Anchored (Ripper Street, Hobbs/Jackson)
Title: Anchored
Fandom: Ripper Street
Characters: Dick Hobbs/Homer Jackson, Long Susan Hart
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: An AU version of the last two episodes, set after the finale 'What Use Our Work?'
Summary: After Jackson gets his job back, Hobbs waits and contemplates what the Captain will do next. They have one hell of a reunion.
Author Notes: Part two in the To Live Is To Drown verse. It's been far too long since I posted anything in this verse. Dedicated to the friend who volunteered to read this and then suffered great loss. I only hope to make you smile during this awful time.
It was the excited scrabble of noise from the girls that first alerted Hobbs. He'd been sleeping fitfully on Captain Jackson's bed, shirt unbuttoned and untucked and hair more than rumpled thanks to the amount of times his hands had tugged at it in worry. Miss Hart's girls were better than some of Inspector Reid's contacts; they seemed to know everything of import that was being spoken of amongst the powerful. Miss Hart had looked amused at his astonishment the first time the girls had spilled news of Inspector Reid's movements.
“You claim he will free Homer Jackson. I must know if London needs to fall behind me,” was all she'd said.
It was more than enough.
This time though, the noise was like all the girls at once, an unusual occurrence, particularly at an hour that usually yielded an abundance of customers. Hobbs coloured, thinking of how many times he'd plugged his ears and thanked God that he was a deep sleeper. Then he quickly got to his feet, neatened his appearance as best he could, and peered out of the door. Some of the girls were hurrying downstairs; Ruth catching sight of Hobbs as she turned to talk to Lillian.
“Come on, Dick. There's news of Captain Jackson.”
Heart in his mouth, Hobbs hurried into the hallway, remembering to leave the door shut; Jackson valued his privacy, even in the place he called home. In the main parlour, Miss Hart nodded at him. Hobbs itched to ask questions, surely if the news was bad Miss Hart would have taken herself away from here already?
“Captain Jackson is indeed back on our streets. Now to work, our doors are open.”
The girls split in several directions, talking quietly and excitedly as they went. Several of them smiled at Hobbs or squeezed his hand as they passed. Hobbs felt like his hearing was wavering - Captain Jackson was free of the noose.
Miss Hart was suddenly close in front of him, her gaze a heavy weighty thing. “Your worth, Constable.”
She inclined her head, in a thank-you, Hobbs realised, so he hastily returned the gesture. He couldn't say he counted Miss Hart as a friend exactly, she held herself too distantly for such things, but he was beginning to understand her silent language a little and why Captain Jackson was so committed to her good health. Hobbs felt somewhat inclined towards it himself, though he was full of doubt as to whether she would exert herself for his sake in return.
Hobbs looked longingly at the door that led to the street, to the station; he had gotten comfortable listening at corners and blending into the brickwork and he knew that he had things of note to report to the Inspector, but he missed working at the station amongst everybody else. Inspector Reid had said at the beginning of all this that whatever the outcome, Hobbs should not make himself known at the station until Reid sent word to him. Orders were orders, so with a heavy sigh but a lightened heart, Hobbs retreated back to Jackson's room.
Would Jackson want to see him when he returned? Maybe he wouldn't return at all, maybe he'd visit the taverns and end up sleeping off the drink someplace else as he had done many times before. Or maybe he'd drop in on a gambling house to celebrate his freedom. He had made no promises.
Hobbs looked around the room; it was still recognisably Jackson's, his paraphernalia covering the surfaces, though it was also obvious that the room had once belonged to one of Miss Hart's girls, the silks and colours speaking of its original purpose. But now Hobbs was part of the room too; the clothing loaned to him by Miss Hart was stacked on a table, and there were his papers, notes of what he had learned written in a rudimentary code that Inspector Reid had taught him, and his soap and shoes. It was much more of himself than had ever been present before in Jackson's room. Would the Captain object?
Hobbs didn’t bother with stripping off his clothing; instead he simply sprawled on sheets now long familiar to him and contemplated the ceiling. He was to return to life, back to work in the station, a fact which pleased him no end. He’d be able to see his family too, though they were quite used to him sleeping elsewhere due to work (and due to Captain Jackson, though that fact remained in shadow). He would be learning from the Inspector again, and Sergeant Drake, and the Captain of course, assuming he wanted to put himself on Inspector Reid’s ticket once more. He would, wouldn’t he? How else would he make money for his lodgings? For Miss Hart did not allow him such space for free, no matter their past. Hobbs himself had been paying her from his salary, a suggestion he had made before Miss Hart had even had to ask. The conversation had made her eyebrows pull up in a way that had pleased Hobbs; he’d surpassed her expectations. Maybe that was why she’d allowed him to stay.
It was some hours later that a door banged open downstairs and Hobbs jerked almost awake, lost in the sheets, in the smell of himself twined with the still-ingrained scent of Jackson - the tobacco he favoured, the beer he frequently drank, the scent that came from his skin alone. Hobbs buried his nose in the pillow; he had prevented the sheets from being washed since his lonely stay in the room had begun, he was too attached to the smell. At a certain point, he was afraid it was all he’d ever have left of Jackson.
Hobbs’ heart trembled in his chest, his thoughts still thickly-clouded by sleep, when the room’s door was thrust open.
“I was sure I’d dreamt your presence amongst the living.”
Hobbs sat up, suddenly alert and breathless at hearing the voice of the one he’d been thinking of. Jackson looked as unkempt as always, eyes half-lidded and appreciative. Hobbs flushed under that gaze, he couldn’t help it, and stayed where he was, as tempted as he was to rush over and grab hold of the Captain, to check that he wasn’t the one dreaming.
“I…I’m glad to see you free, sir,” he managed, eyes roving Jackson hungrily.
At that, the spell seemed broken, as Jackson shut the door, kicked off his shoes, and strode purposefully toward the bed. Hobbs was always hit by the fervent urge to scramble backwards whenever Jackson behaved in such a manner, but he never did, because it was Captain Jackson and moving away would lessen the chance of Jackson’s hands on him.
Jackson didn’t smell overly of beer, instead he smelled like the station and of the smogged air outside. He smelled like himself. He loomed over Hobbs, languid and hungry all at once, the sort of hunger that was silent and shaded but discernible to Hobbs. He had been learning to read the Captain for some time now; it was one of his favourite areas of study.
What he knew clear enough was this - they both had a hunger thrumming under their skin for the other, stoked by distance and time apart, by the knife edge’s chance that one or both of them could have fallen from life so recently. It had come too close.
So Hobbs stayed still, shivering slightly from the very nearness of Captain Jackson, a dream and a hope made flesh, and Jackson braced a hand against the headboard as his body lay practically atop Hobbs, knees lazily bracketing Hobbs’ hips. They stared at each other, drinking deeply of what they saw. Jackson was still wearing his ring, Hobbs noted, and didn’t look worse for wear, clearly the ending of the case hadn’t brought ruin. But was that enough to keep him in London?
Jackson’s free hand palmed down Hobbs’ side, the absence of warning causing Hobbs to gasp a little and redden at his own noise. Jackson undid him so easily and seemed to revel in the occurrence, pressing at what Hobbs displayed and exploring further the Constable’s reactions with a thoroughness and banked pleasure that only made Hobbs’ heated madness increase. Oh, he had missed that madness.
Jackson’s roving fingers found their way to Hobbs’ face, to the curve of his cheek. Hobbs nestled into the touch, too undone by the fates they’d both narrowly escaped and the sudden closeness of Jackson to flush too greatly at his own wantonness. Jackson made a noise deep in his chest, something uncurling like a satisfied growl, and Hobbs pressed deeper. He could feel the heat of Jackson’s breath on his face, rich with the wonderfully familiar smell of tobacco. Lord, this was real; Jackson was back, alive and whole.
There was sudden space and cold air as Jackson leaned back to strip off his jacket, shirt, and trousers with an impatience that made heat burn through Hobbs and his eyes widen. Jackson’s eyes never left him as he encouraged Hobbs to sit up and remove his own clothing. The activity entangled their limbs as Jackson helped him pull clear. A thrill skittered through Hobbs; Jackson was too consumed by impatience and want for toying with him. They were both keen for the touch of the other, impatient and greedy and short of breath, eager enough to make Hobbs flush at the notion of being so bold and of making Jackson so undone in return.
He angled his face, desperate for the kiss of Jackson’s lips, on any part of him that Jackson chose, usually a cause for teasing and agonisingly drawn-out touches and Hobbs being coaxed into begging. This time though, Jackson wasted no time in fusing his mouth to Hobbs', lapping at the Constable’s eager groaning lips. That growling noise was back, making Hobbs arch closer. He was consumed by the man above him, in mind and body, and in that frantic hazy scatter of moments, he felt bold enough not to be embarrassed by such a thought. Jackson’s own desperation was raw for all to see, all being Hobbs, who behind closed doors was allowed such a gift. It only made him groan louder.
Jackson released Hobbs’ mouth long enough to form words of his own. “A fine couple of dead men we make.”
“I don’t think the dead move quite so much, sir,” Hobbs gasped out.
Jackson sucked at Hobbs’ bottom lip for a moment, his hand snaking downward. “So what does that make us?”
Hobbs had no answer; the movement of Jackson’s hand was too mighty a distraction to overcome. So Hobbs gave himself over to the murmured words of the Captain and to the tactile direction that continued to undo him and cause unseemly noise to spill from his lips. He was reticent normally, though the girls liked to tease that they could hear him whenever he shared Jackson’s bed, but recent events had entirely unpicked him and laid him bare. He could not let go of Jackson.
Jackson was possessed by the same madness, slick with sweat and heat and a look in his eyes that singed every part of Hobbs it touched. He buried himself in Hobbs, hands appearing to be everywhere at once, as he urgently pushed them both to heightened pleasure. Hobbs was not sure what words he himself uttered at such a peak, only that he garbled something chokingly against Captain Jackson and that Jackson’s expression twisted as curses and tender words became all much the same thing from his ragged lips.
For a few moments, there was only silence, broken by harsh laboured breathing. Hobbs vainly attempted to piece together his thoughts, but found he could not move or think coherently, nor did he have the will to yet. For now he revelled in the weight of Jackson upon him; it asserted the man’s living presence.
Jackson himself lazily brushed lips against Hobbs' neck for a moment, almost lingering. “Welcome back.”
“And you, sir,” Hobbs choked out a bit of laughter, only hesitating a moment before asking something more, knowing that once their spirits had cooled, he would find it near impossible to voice such a presumption. “...Are you back, sir? I mean, will you still call London home now that-”
“Now that the Inspector knows of dark deeds that lie not so far into my past? He sees fit to keep Drake employed, I see no reason why I too would not pass muster.”
What he didn't say though, and what Hobbs well knew, was that Inspector Reid was likely most angered at the lies that the Captain had wrapped around himself, keeping his true identity obscured for both himself and Miss Hart. Inspector Reid valued loyalty and honesty above almost all things. Hobbs shifted a little, his question still not entirely answered.
“Yes, sir, but what I mean is, is it your wish to stay here?”
Hobbs did not dare look at Jackson, choosing instead to focus on the painting hung on the wall opposite. It was not his place to ask such a thing of the Captain, placing a question within a question when no promises lay between them. But Jackson didn't let the silence linger, instead he tugged at Hobbs' hair with just the right tightness of grip to make Hobbs bite his lip and instinctively glance upward. Jackson's gaze was direct and his free hand reached for a tobacco tin.
“I have employment with a man who knows what might come knocking in my wake and a bed I have no intention of leaving until noon tomorrow. Why would I leave?”
His fingers purposefully trailed down Hobbs' face, saying so much more than words. Hobbs smiled, unable to stopper the happiness that spread through him, his expression becoming a gasp when the cool metal of the tobacco tin collided with his chest.
Jackson glanced around the room. “Besides, it seems you've made a home here for yourself. Ruth tells me they prefer your company to mine.”
Hobbs reddened. “I'm sure she's joking, sir. They've been very kind to me.”
“And I am sure she's not.” Having lit his cigarette, Jackson tossed the tin back onto the dresser. “If you attempt to move out, I believe you'll have a fine fight on your hands.”
Hobbs could see the offer slivered between the Captain's words, his heart thumping quickly in response. Really? “Won't Miss Hart-”
“Susan has made it abundantly clear where her thoughts lie. And I see the appeal of it myself.” His hand not occupied by a cigarette slid to pinch at Hobbs' hip. “Though I doubt the Inspector will.”
Hobbs scrabbled to focus. “Inspector Reid knows where I bed, sir.”
“And no doubt believes you an inside man for him should Susan prove too stubborn in the face of his requests one day.”
Hobbs opened his mouth to deny such an idea, but could not bring the words forth. It did sound likely. Hobbs' heart sank; he would never disobey orders, but he could not bring ruin to any of the girls in Miss Hart's employ. They had been so kind to him, a couple had even insisted on taking news of him to his mother, since they had gentlemen to visit in the area.
Jackson grasped his attention by taking hold of his chin in much the same way Miss Hart had. “Easy, Hobbs. You denied the ferryman his cargo. Reid should cause you no concern.”
Something shook in Hobbs chest, maybe because the thought of standing up to the Inspector was too great a thing to contemplate, or perhaps because he liked the idea that, the nights he wasn’t under his mother’s roof, his shoes would be side by side with Jackson’s. Either way Jackson put aside his cigarette and turned Hobbs over, hands getting to work again, slowly this time, like Hobbs had come to expect, teasing without words.
It was some time later that they began the fall to sleep, the lamp light golden in the dark and giving Jackson an odd glow that made Hobbs blink hard. The red tip of Jackson's cigarette was the last illumination extinguished before the Captain slung a firm arm across Hobbs' body, pinning him in place. Hobbs pressed his nose to Jackson’s hair and breathed in smoke and mutton and relief tinged with a brightness he could not articulate.
It was dark, but they found light together.
-the end
Fandom: Ripper Street
Characters: Dick Hobbs/Homer Jackson, Long Susan Hart
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Spoilers: An AU version of the last two episodes, set after the finale 'What Use Our Work?'
Summary: After Jackson gets his job back, Hobbs waits and contemplates what the Captain will do next. They have one hell of a reunion.
Author Notes: Part two in the To Live Is To Drown verse. It's been far too long since I posted anything in this verse. Dedicated to the friend who volunteered to read this and then suffered great loss. I only hope to make you smile during this awful time.
It was the excited scrabble of noise from the girls that first alerted Hobbs. He'd been sleeping fitfully on Captain Jackson's bed, shirt unbuttoned and untucked and hair more than rumpled thanks to the amount of times his hands had tugged at it in worry. Miss Hart's girls were better than some of Inspector Reid's contacts; they seemed to know everything of import that was being spoken of amongst the powerful. Miss Hart had looked amused at his astonishment the first time the girls had spilled news of Inspector Reid's movements.
“You claim he will free Homer Jackson. I must know if London needs to fall behind me,” was all she'd said.
It was more than enough.
This time though, the noise was like all the girls at once, an unusual occurrence, particularly at an hour that usually yielded an abundance of customers. Hobbs coloured, thinking of how many times he'd plugged his ears and thanked God that he was a deep sleeper. Then he quickly got to his feet, neatened his appearance as best he could, and peered out of the door. Some of the girls were hurrying downstairs; Ruth catching sight of Hobbs as she turned to talk to Lillian.
“Come on, Dick. There's news of Captain Jackson.”
Heart in his mouth, Hobbs hurried into the hallway, remembering to leave the door shut; Jackson valued his privacy, even in the place he called home. In the main parlour, Miss Hart nodded at him. Hobbs itched to ask questions, surely if the news was bad Miss Hart would have taken herself away from here already?
“Captain Jackson is indeed back on our streets. Now to work, our doors are open.”
The girls split in several directions, talking quietly and excitedly as they went. Several of them smiled at Hobbs or squeezed his hand as they passed. Hobbs felt like his hearing was wavering - Captain Jackson was free of the noose.
Miss Hart was suddenly close in front of him, her gaze a heavy weighty thing. “Your worth, Constable.”
She inclined her head, in a thank-you, Hobbs realised, so he hastily returned the gesture. He couldn't say he counted Miss Hart as a friend exactly, she held herself too distantly for such things, but he was beginning to understand her silent language a little and why Captain Jackson was so committed to her good health. Hobbs felt somewhat inclined towards it himself, though he was full of doubt as to whether she would exert herself for his sake in return.
Hobbs looked longingly at the door that led to the street, to the station; he had gotten comfortable listening at corners and blending into the brickwork and he knew that he had things of note to report to the Inspector, but he missed working at the station amongst everybody else. Inspector Reid had said at the beginning of all this that whatever the outcome, Hobbs should not make himself known at the station until Reid sent word to him. Orders were orders, so with a heavy sigh but a lightened heart, Hobbs retreated back to Jackson's room.
Would Jackson want to see him when he returned? Maybe he wouldn't return at all, maybe he'd visit the taverns and end up sleeping off the drink someplace else as he had done many times before. Or maybe he'd drop in on a gambling house to celebrate his freedom. He had made no promises.
Hobbs looked around the room; it was still recognisably Jackson's, his paraphernalia covering the surfaces, though it was also obvious that the room had once belonged to one of Miss Hart's girls, the silks and colours speaking of its original purpose. But now Hobbs was part of the room too; the clothing loaned to him by Miss Hart was stacked on a table, and there were his papers, notes of what he had learned written in a rudimentary code that Inspector Reid had taught him, and his soap and shoes. It was much more of himself than had ever been present before in Jackson's room. Would the Captain object?
Hobbs didn’t bother with stripping off his clothing; instead he simply sprawled on sheets now long familiar to him and contemplated the ceiling. He was to return to life, back to work in the station, a fact which pleased him no end. He’d be able to see his family too, though they were quite used to him sleeping elsewhere due to work (and due to Captain Jackson, though that fact remained in shadow). He would be learning from the Inspector again, and Sergeant Drake, and the Captain of course, assuming he wanted to put himself on Inspector Reid’s ticket once more. He would, wouldn’t he? How else would he make money for his lodgings? For Miss Hart did not allow him such space for free, no matter their past. Hobbs himself had been paying her from his salary, a suggestion he had made before Miss Hart had even had to ask. The conversation had made her eyebrows pull up in a way that had pleased Hobbs; he’d surpassed her expectations. Maybe that was why she’d allowed him to stay.
It was some hours later that a door banged open downstairs and Hobbs jerked almost awake, lost in the sheets, in the smell of himself twined with the still-ingrained scent of Jackson - the tobacco he favoured, the beer he frequently drank, the scent that came from his skin alone. Hobbs buried his nose in the pillow; he had prevented the sheets from being washed since his lonely stay in the room had begun, he was too attached to the smell. At a certain point, he was afraid it was all he’d ever have left of Jackson.
Hobbs’ heart trembled in his chest, his thoughts still thickly-clouded by sleep, when the room’s door was thrust open.
“I was sure I’d dreamt your presence amongst the living.”
Hobbs sat up, suddenly alert and breathless at hearing the voice of the one he’d been thinking of. Jackson looked as unkempt as always, eyes half-lidded and appreciative. Hobbs flushed under that gaze, he couldn’t help it, and stayed where he was, as tempted as he was to rush over and grab hold of the Captain, to check that he wasn’t the one dreaming.
“I…I’m glad to see you free, sir,” he managed, eyes roving Jackson hungrily.
At that, the spell seemed broken, as Jackson shut the door, kicked off his shoes, and strode purposefully toward the bed. Hobbs was always hit by the fervent urge to scramble backwards whenever Jackson behaved in such a manner, but he never did, because it was Captain Jackson and moving away would lessen the chance of Jackson’s hands on him.
Jackson didn’t smell overly of beer, instead he smelled like the station and of the smogged air outside. He smelled like himself. He loomed over Hobbs, languid and hungry all at once, the sort of hunger that was silent and shaded but discernible to Hobbs. He had been learning to read the Captain for some time now; it was one of his favourite areas of study.
What he knew clear enough was this - they both had a hunger thrumming under their skin for the other, stoked by distance and time apart, by the knife edge’s chance that one or both of them could have fallen from life so recently. It had come too close.
So Hobbs stayed still, shivering slightly from the very nearness of Captain Jackson, a dream and a hope made flesh, and Jackson braced a hand against the headboard as his body lay practically atop Hobbs, knees lazily bracketing Hobbs’ hips. They stared at each other, drinking deeply of what they saw. Jackson was still wearing his ring, Hobbs noted, and didn’t look worse for wear, clearly the ending of the case hadn’t brought ruin. But was that enough to keep him in London?
Jackson’s free hand palmed down Hobbs’ side, the absence of warning causing Hobbs to gasp a little and redden at his own noise. Jackson undid him so easily and seemed to revel in the occurrence, pressing at what Hobbs displayed and exploring further the Constable’s reactions with a thoroughness and banked pleasure that only made Hobbs’ heated madness increase. Oh, he had missed that madness.
Jackson’s roving fingers found their way to Hobbs’ face, to the curve of his cheek. Hobbs nestled into the touch, too undone by the fates they’d both narrowly escaped and the sudden closeness of Jackson to flush too greatly at his own wantonness. Jackson made a noise deep in his chest, something uncurling like a satisfied growl, and Hobbs pressed deeper. He could feel the heat of Jackson’s breath on his face, rich with the wonderfully familiar smell of tobacco. Lord, this was real; Jackson was back, alive and whole.
There was sudden space and cold air as Jackson leaned back to strip off his jacket, shirt, and trousers with an impatience that made heat burn through Hobbs and his eyes widen. Jackson’s eyes never left him as he encouraged Hobbs to sit up and remove his own clothing. The activity entangled their limbs as Jackson helped him pull clear. A thrill skittered through Hobbs; Jackson was too consumed by impatience and want for toying with him. They were both keen for the touch of the other, impatient and greedy and short of breath, eager enough to make Hobbs flush at the notion of being so bold and of making Jackson so undone in return.
He angled his face, desperate for the kiss of Jackson’s lips, on any part of him that Jackson chose, usually a cause for teasing and agonisingly drawn-out touches and Hobbs being coaxed into begging. This time though, Jackson wasted no time in fusing his mouth to Hobbs', lapping at the Constable’s eager groaning lips. That growling noise was back, making Hobbs arch closer. He was consumed by the man above him, in mind and body, and in that frantic hazy scatter of moments, he felt bold enough not to be embarrassed by such a thought. Jackson’s own desperation was raw for all to see, all being Hobbs, who behind closed doors was allowed such a gift. It only made him groan louder.
Jackson released Hobbs’ mouth long enough to form words of his own. “A fine couple of dead men we make.”
“I don’t think the dead move quite so much, sir,” Hobbs gasped out.
Jackson sucked at Hobbs’ bottom lip for a moment, his hand snaking downward. “So what does that make us?”
Hobbs had no answer; the movement of Jackson’s hand was too mighty a distraction to overcome. So Hobbs gave himself over to the murmured words of the Captain and to the tactile direction that continued to undo him and cause unseemly noise to spill from his lips. He was reticent normally, though the girls liked to tease that they could hear him whenever he shared Jackson’s bed, but recent events had entirely unpicked him and laid him bare. He could not let go of Jackson.
Jackson was possessed by the same madness, slick with sweat and heat and a look in his eyes that singed every part of Hobbs it touched. He buried himself in Hobbs, hands appearing to be everywhere at once, as he urgently pushed them both to heightened pleasure. Hobbs was not sure what words he himself uttered at such a peak, only that he garbled something chokingly against Captain Jackson and that Jackson’s expression twisted as curses and tender words became all much the same thing from his ragged lips.
For a few moments, there was only silence, broken by harsh laboured breathing. Hobbs vainly attempted to piece together his thoughts, but found he could not move or think coherently, nor did he have the will to yet. For now he revelled in the weight of Jackson upon him; it asserted the man’s living presence.
Jackson himself lazily brushed lips against Hobbs' neck for a moment, almost lingering. “Welcome back.”
“And you, sir,” Hobbs choked out a bit of laughter, only hesitating a moment before asking something more, knowing that once their spirits had cooled, he would find it near impossible to voice such a presumption. “...Are you back, sir? I mean, will you still call London home now that-”
“Now that the Inspector knows of dark deeds that lie not so far into my past? He sees fit to keep Drake employed, I see no reason why I too would not pass muster.”
What he didn't say though, and what Hobbs well knew, was that Inspector Reid was likely most angered at the lies that the Captain had wrapped around himself, keeping his true identity obscured for both himself and Miss Hart. Inspector Reid valued loyalty and honesty above almost all things. Hobbs shifted a little, his question still not entirely answered.
“Yes, sir, but what I mean is, is it your wish to stay here?”
Hobbs did not dare look at Jackson, choosing instead to focus on the painting hung on the wall opposite. It was not his place to ask such a thing of the Captain, placing a question within a question when no promises lay between them. But Jackson didn't let the silence linger, instead he tugged at Hobbs' hair with just the right tightness of grip to make Hobbs bite his lip and instinctively glance upward. Jackson's gaze was direct and his free hand reached for a tobacco tin.
“I have employment with a man who knows what might come knocking in my wake and a bed I have no intention of leaving until noon tomorrow. Why would I leave?”
His fingers purposefully trailed down Hobbs' face, saying so much more than words. Hobbs smiled, unable to stopper the happiness that spread through him, his expression becoming a gasp when the cool metal of the tobacco tin collided with his chest.
Jackson glanced around the room. “Besides, it seems you've made a home here for yourself. Ruth tells me they prefer your company to mine.”
Hobbs reddened. “I'm sure she's joking, sir. They've been very kind to me.”
“And I am sure she's not.” Having lit his cigarette, Jackson tossed the tin back onto the dresser. “If you attempt to move out, I believe you'll have a fine fight on your hands.”
Hobbs could see the offer slivered between the Captain's words, his heart thumping quickly in response. Really? “Won't Miss Hart-”
“Susan has made it abundantly clear where her thoughts lie. And I see the appeal of it myself.” His hand not occupied by a cigarette slid to pinch at Hobbs' hip. “Though I doubt the Inspector will.”
Hobbs scrabbled to focus. “Inspector Reid knows where I bed, sir.”
“And no doubt believes you an inside man for him should Susan prove too stubborn in the face of his requests one day.”
Hobbs opened his mouth to deny such an idea, but could not bring the words forth. It did sound likely. Hobbs' heart sank; he would never disobey orders, but he could not bring ruin to any of the girls in Miss Hart's employ. They had been so kind to him, a couple had even insisted on taking news of him to his mother, since they had gentlemen to visit in the area.
Jackson grasped his attention by taking hold of his chin in much the same way Miss Hart had. “Easy, Hobbs. You denied the ferryman his cargo. Reid should cause you no concern.”
Something shook in Hobbs chest, maybe because the thought of standing up to the Inspector was too great a thing to contemplate, or perhaps because he liked the idea that, the nights he wasn’t under his mother’s roof, his shoes would be side by side with Jackson’s. Either way Jackson put aside his cigarette and turned Hobbs over, hands getting to work again, slowly this time, like Hobbs had come to expect, teasing without words.
It was some time later that they began the fall to sleep, the lamp light golden in the dark and giving Jackson an odd glow that made Hobbs blink hard. The red tip of Jackson's cigarette was the last illumination extinguished before the Captain slung a firm arm across Hobbs' body, pinning him in place. Hobbs pressed his nose to Jackson’s hair and breathed in smoke and mutton and relief tinged with a brightness he could not articulate.
It was dark, but they found light together.
-the end