Author's Note: I have recently become somewhat painfully addicted to Whitechapel. Apart from the excellent writing, acting and feel of the show, Chandler and Kent just make me sickeningly happy. Sadly, my fellow Whitechapel fic writers are few in number but the lovely fics that have surfaced have all been wonderful. Now we all just need to write more. *cracks whip*

Chandler had to smile as he watched the team stroll into the incident room each morning. What had started merely as a lesson in sartorial elegance and professionalism had quickly turned into something of a daily fashion show. At first there had been a run of novelty ties bought from various train station concourses and a number of business jackets found buried at the back of wardrobes. While it had not been the sudden turnaround Chandler had hoped for, they were acquiescing and that had to count for something.

It was a few days after the initial instruction when Fitz had walked proudly into the office, a coffee from Starbucks in one hand and a silk-lined jacket in the other. He had all but swaggered in like a peacock, revelling in the amused glances and wolf whistles that were thrown in his direction. Turned out in a maroon shirt, black tie and woollen tank top, he very much looked the professional Chandler hoped him to be. His trousers were neatly pressed with a perfect crease and his shoes had been freshly shined. It had perhaps been a mistake when Chandler had publicly commended him for his choice of attire, something that responded in further whistles and some much undignified ribbing.

The following day, Miles had turned up for work in a new woollen coat, the shabby mac he had been wearing thus far resigned to the back of his car. He had claimed, when prompted through interested questioning, that it was getting colder and he needed something with a bit more thermal efficiency. Still, there was no denying the way he carefully smoothed down the lapels and deftly brushed away any biscuit crumbs that Sanders dared to get near it.

In response to Miles' new look, McCormack and Sanders similarly traded their own worn out shirts and jackets for more fashionable ones from the high street. Sanders preferred the more casual approach with turned up sleeves and loose fitting suit trousers whereas McCormack was partial to experimenting with dark suits and a number of brightly coloured ties. Both of them were, however, still liable to find half eaten chocolate bars and drawings from their children hidden deep in their silk-lined pockets.

Chandler had observed the changes with a mixture of pride, frustration and amusement. Watching the endless parade of new suits, new ties, new coats and new shoes was something of a highlight of the day. Seeing the team stride into the incident room with such an air of pride and self-respect was certainly more gratifying than it should have been. After all, how can one possibly find satisfaction in teaching fully grown men how to dress professionally? It was more than a little unsettling, really, just how amusing and endearing he found it. But it was something else entirely the day Emerson Kent walked into the office in a beautifully tailored three piece suit.

The young DC had immediately taken to the new dress code with great aplomb. His jeans and trainers were quickly traded for smart trousers and shirts, a muted tie around his neck and polished shoes. It appeared he considered it as a way to fit in, to disguise the obvious rift between him and the rest of the team. He dressed older, smarter and found he garnered more respect for it both in the office and out on the street. But the addition of a waistcoat and suit jacket to Kent's already smart office wear suddenly commanded the attention of all in the incident room. Sanders had followed him in with a look of appreciation and once again a round of whistles circled the room. Chandler had found himself staring through the open door of his office, noting the way the cut of the suit accentuated the tall, lean figure underneath.

Later, when Kent had removed his jacket and was perched on the edge of his desk in just his shirtsleeves, Chandler had found himself glancing across at him more times than were appropriate. The fit of the waistcoat and the way it emphasised the slim waist and perfectly flat stomach... In the end he'd been forced to send Kent out on some menial task so he could better concentrate on his work.

The following morning, Chandler sat in his office with one eye on the clock and the other on the door to the incident room. There was distinct charge in the air, like electricity tingling against his skin. Anticipation was creating a thrum of excitement though his body and he found himself pulling at a collar that seemed suddenly too tight. Ashamed and aroused, he observed silently as, at ten to nine precisely, Kent descended the short flight of steps into the incident room with a certain grace and elegance that had Chandler's eyes fixated.

He wasn't sure when exactly it went from merely watching to touching but he was certain that, if he asked, Miles would be able to tell him precisely. It was just little things at first, a tentative hand on the shoulder, fingers brushing when tea cups exchanged hands. Once, after pursuing a suspect through the cluttered gardens of a rundown estate, he had helped brush Kent's jacket free of dirt and crisp autumn leaves. The hands smoothing down the front of the young DC's suit, the hands on his chest, perhaps lingered a little too long. Kent had regarded him with a curious expression but he did nothing to discourage the gentle caresses that ghosted over his body.

It was some weeks later that the anticipation of seeing Kent beautifully turned out in tailored suits and waistcoats transformed into a painful desire to see him out of them.

A glimpse of pale skin or the flash of a radiant smile became the highlight of his day. Indeed, the shifts became an amalgamation of nothing more than focussed, career-driven work and of the moments he shared with Kent. One was no more important than the other but on the days when Kent had been out of the office or he, himself, had been called away, he found that particular day lacking in significance. On these days Chandler would surprise himself by instigating a night out at the pub. When the beer kept coming and conversation fluttered here and there, no one seemed to pay attention to how often knees bumped under the table or fingers brushed on the sticky table top. And if Chandler offered to give Kent a lift home at the end of the night it was out of concern rather than anything else. And if Kent deigned to lean against him for the entire ride it was because his sense of stability was hampered by the amount of alcohol he had consumed.

And if there happened to be a chaste kiss in the shadows of the car park, neither would deny it upon questioning.

Some months after the Ripper case, when all the paperwork was filed away and the whispers round the station quietened, Chandler finally found himself removing that tailored suit like a child unwrapping a much wanted present. All of a sudden there was too much fabric, too many layers, but the show of skin being unveiled piece by piece was wholly arousing. Finally relieved of his clothing, Kent was all pale skin and angled lines, a shade too thin and desperately beautiful.

And when Chandler slowly fucked him over the silken sheets and tumble of pillows, the beads of sweat that pooled in the dip of his back were all he ever wanted to see covering that skin.