fandom: Whitechapel

characters: Joe Chandler/Jess (OC), Commander Anderson, DS Miles

disclaimer: fic•tion [fíksh'n]: literary works of imagination

author's notes: written as a Christmas present for Kaylien.

BETWEEN THE LINES

i. November 24th, 2009

Jess stumbles into his life quite unexpectedly. He's staring down at his feet, walking down the high street, counting vigorously.

Thirty-six. Where is Miles when you need him?

Thirty-seven. Or Kent for that matter?

Thirty-eight. He'd rather have the Ripper all over again over this.

Thirty— and he walks into someone on the street, dropping his pathetic excuse for Christmas shopping down on the ground. He hears the snow globe shatter inside the paper bag. "Oi, watch where you're bloody going, you—" but the rest of his words drown somewhere in between realising he was the one being inattentive, and staring into two of the prettiest eyes he's ever seen. "Oh."

"Bugger," the woman in front of him exasperates, and slumps her shoulders. She's a strawberry blonde, shoulder-length; shorter than him in build. She's struggling with a large drawing folder under one arm and a black shoulder bag. "I can pay for that," she adds in a London accent, and points down at his wrecked bag, purse at the ready in her hand.

"What?" He blinks, and stares down as well. "Oh, no." He chuckles and fumbles for the bag. "Don't worry about it." His mum doesn't even like snow globes, what was he thinking?

"No, I'd feel awful if I didn't—" she hesitates for a moment, and then sets the drawing folder down on the ground. "Pick one of these," she says, untying the cord holding the folder together. It's filled to the brim with paintings. "Any of these."

"You're an artist!" he all but exclaims when he lays eyes on the multi-coloured facets of some of the paintings she's leafing through; he finds her attention to detail daunting. Joe can feel her eyes on him. Did he say anything wrong? "I couldn't possibly—" He shakes his head, but meets with her blue eyes again, wide in question. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he blurts out, then frowns. It's not like him to be this spontaneous.

She seemingly hesitates, at first, pursing her lips, and inspects him from tip to toe. "Sure," she eventually answers. He figures there must be something about him that makes him look trustworthy.

ii. January 10th, 2010

He could—no.

Or maybe—no. Not right. Maybe if he—no, he can't possibly ask.

Joe shakes his head, but before he has a chance to continue obsessing, a strong hand lands on his shoulder. He almost jumps, but contains himself. "Alright, Joe?" Commander Anderson asks, squeezing his shoulder. Joe nods, and stares down at his feet. His boss had invited him out to dinner, or rather, Anderson's spouse had insisted on it. Who was he to refuse?

"Joe?" a soft voice sounds from behind him, and a hand presses up between his shoulder blades, barely palpable, caressing a way up the same shoulder Anderson's hand had rested on seconds before. He turns his head, and watches Jess tentatively. She's wearing a dark-red cocktail dress; he wonders if she's noticed the other men looking at her.

"Ready to go?" he asks, offering her the bright red coat she bought just for the occasion. Her shoes don't match her coat, Joe notes as he watches Jess shrug it on, but shakes his head again.

"Yeah," Jess smiles up at him. He blinks, smiles awkwardly, and tries to ignore the twist his stomach is making. His time at college had been spend learning, rather than picking up girls at the pub like most his mates. His father, too, had always told him that girls were only distractions and that he should focus on his career first. This hasn't stopped his mother asking for grand children these recent years though.

Maybe he could—no.

"Are you alright?" Jess asks him in the car; he's watching her fasten her seatbelt.

"Hmm?" he asks, eyes on the wheel. "Yeah," he frowns, looking ahead and starts the car, shifting gears. Jess doesn't ask any more, but he can feel her eyes on him the whole ride to her flat. He can't possibly invite himself up, can he? Maybe— no, could he? Maybe he can invite her back to his place. But the thought of her seeing his neatly furnished flat, the perfectly aligned row of black shoes right next to the door, the one glass and the one coffee cup already ready on the kitchen counter. No. He can't have her see that just yet.

He parks the car across the street, and turns off the engine. "Did you—" Jess starts, but hesitates. "Do you want to come up?" He wonders why she hesitates; is she asking him just to be polite or because he's been too distant all night? "I have a bottle of Merlot waiting for us upstairs." He looks at her, and smiles. She wants him to come up; Merlot's his favourite.

"Okay," he smiles, and unbuckles his seatbelt.

Jess' flat is tidy, even by his standards. It's clutter-free and everything seems to have an assigned place. He forces himself not to open any drawers, who knows what might be stuffed in there. He can't help but wonder if she tidied up just for him, or if the flat always looks like this. Jess is a painter, and there's an open space adjoining the living room set up as her studio. Definitely too clean. She's done this for him. He can't help but smile to himself.

He walks into the makeshift studio while Jess puts away their coats and gets the wine out. There's a painting on one of the walls, with Jess' signature on it. It's a white canvas, covered with thickly-lined black triangles, all perfectly equilateral, he guesses. The smaller overlapping triangles are often coloured in with bright red, blue or yellow, and somewhere he recognises the pattern from back in his prep school days. He can't help himself; he starts counting the triangles...

... Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two.

"Anderson seemed really rather pleased with himself tonight," Jess calls from the kitchen, but the words are a dull sound at the back of his mind. Fifty-three. "I thought his face might stay like that forever." The grin on his boss' face had grown more pronounced as the evening progressed. Granted, it's not every week that you become a grandfather. Fifty-four. "What are you doing?" he hears Jess ask, her footsteps on the carpet. "Joe?"

He doesn't mean for it, because he wants to treat her with more respect than that, but he raises his hand and puts up his index finger towards her to keep her silent. Fifty-five.

Jess sighs, and puts down their wineglasses on a cupboard to the side of the room. That could leave stains, he thinks. Fifty-six. She takes her time to walk over to him; he can tell despite being engrossed in his counting. Fifty-seven. She's behind him now? Why? Her hands smooth up the back of his suit again like at the restaurant, but they sneak up his face now too. Fifty— He takes in a deep breath, and closes his eyes before Jess' fingers cover them.

"Jess, I was—"

"No, you weren't," Jess whispers before he has the chance to say anything more. His mum used to tell him stop whenever he started counting, or when it got really bad, but Jess finds a way to blanket his anxiety completely.

Joe sighs. "No," he lies, but he knows he has to in order to let the thoughts go. "I wasn't." Jess removes her hands, but keeps her hands on his shoulders. One— no. Joe blinks and takes a breath; there's a nagging feeling settling at the base of his skull, but he continues to stare at the curious painting. He feels Jess' chin coming to rest on his shoulder; she's probably standing on tip-toe. "Thank you," he says, turning his head slightly to look at her.

Jess only smiles in response. "What would happen if you lost count?" she asks.

"I never lose count," Joe laughs. That'd be the day.

"But suppose you did?"

He thinks about it, but only for a moment. "I'd have to start again, wouldn't I?"

"Why?" Jess frowns.

"Well, I don't know," he laughs again. It's funny how Jess always manages to elicit such upside down reactions from him; he'd never thought his condition something to laugh about, but he supposes that maybe for an outsider it is. Except he's the one laughing. "It's called a compulsion for a reason, isn't it?" He looks at the painting again, and tries to see the colours, but he can't look beyond the structure. "It's—"

"Would it help you to know how many there are?" Jess asks, tuning into his distraction.

"Yes," he answers immediately, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She can't possibly know how many there are, can she? A hell of a whole lot more than fifty-seven in any case.

"Three hundred and sixty-five," Jess answers. He wonders if she's spend time counting the triangles herself. Three hundred and sixty-five. Really? he wonders.

He frowns, looks at the painting again, and tries to fit in another seven times fifty-seven. "What does it mean?" He turns his head, eyebrow raised. Jess answers him with a rather quirky frown. "The painting." He grins, voice softening. "What does it represent?"

Jess moves to grab the glasses of wine, and closes the distance between them once again. He turns, and faces her. "My 2007," she says in short, handing him his wineglass. And? He quirks his brow in question. "It was a test in patience and discipline."

"And the result?" he asks bemused.

"Child's play compared to dating you."

He chuckles almost imperceptibly, and casts down his eyes. He knows he can't be the easiest man to be with, and he's long since wondered why Jess stuck with him. "I'm s—" He's about to apologize when he feels Jess' fingers against his lips.

"Shh," she hushes, removing her hand. "I quite like the challenge you pose," she says, and bites down on her bottom lip. He leans in and kisses her, not taking her words as an insult in the least. It's not their first kiss, but quite possibly the first he initiates. Sort of.

iii. February 10th, 2010

He can hardly breathe.

One hundred and forty-seven. He stumbles out of the elevator, his legs just barely holding him upright, but he has to make it. He can't break down in the hallway, and even still, he needs to finish the pattern.

One hundred and forty-eight. And it has to be right, it has to be complete. He loosens his tie, and breathes in deeply, but he feels his body shake, his throat constricting the flow of air to his lungs.

One hundred and forty-nine.

There's a pounding behind his eyes. One hundred and fifty. He stops short in his tracks, and puts a hand to the wall to keep himself standing. Joe closes his eyes and breathes. He's only a few feet away from Jess' door; he must get there. When he finally reaches the door, his knock isn't so much as a knock as it is a screech his fingers make down the wood.

"Joe?" He releases a sigh of relief when he hears Jess' voice behind the door. The door opens – not locked, he notes – but laying eyes on Jess doesn't help him nearly as much as he had hoped it would. "Where have you been?" Jess asks, the concern in her voice almost tangible. "Miles has been calling, he's worried sick." Of course Miles has been calling, Joe thinks. He leans against the doorframe, but can't find his breath. "Are you okay?" Jess asks, reaching out to him with one hand.

He staggers forward uneasily, and stumbles to the ground.

"Joe!" Jess calls out, and runs over to him, sitting down by his side.

He shuts his eyes tightly, and draws himself up against the wall. "One, two, three, four, five." He's tapping his foot down on the floor.

"No, Joe, look at me." He knows Jess is there, he can feel her. But he doesn't hear her.

"Six, seven, eight, nine, ten." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

And then Jess' hands are on his face, making him turn his head. "Look at me, Joe," she insists.

He opens his eyes, finding her blue ones with difficulty. He needs to calm down, he knows that, but he's spinning out of control and will continue to do so unless he finds some sort of anchor. Eleven. No! "They had him shot, Jess," he chokes out. Twelve. "The doctors don't even know—" He feels tears stinging his eyes. "—don't know if he's going to make it."

Thirteen. He squeezes his eyes shut again. "No, Joe." Jess' hands on his face. Fourteen. Jess' lips against his forehead. "This is not your fault." He shakes, grabs hold of one of Jess' arms. Fifteen. "Listen to me!" Jess almost shouts. Her thumbs are stroking his cheeks. Taptaptaptaptap. "You couldn't have known," she says more softly. "It could have been anyone. It could've been you."

Tap— He opens his eyes, looking at Jess. His heart rate is coming down slowly. Maybe it should have been him.

"He has a family, Jess." Joe blinks, feeling tears escape his eyes beyond his control. "What do I—" and then Jess looks away, because she knows what he's saying. What does he have to lose? Who would mourn him and stumble down the hallway clutching everything life offers if ever he got hurt? It happens in a matter of seconds, and he's not spoken all the words, but Jess understands them all too well. He's never said it.

Jess sighs, and gets up. "Come on, I'll make you some tea," she says, but there's something in her voice that tells him this is far from dealt with.

Joe gets up from the ground unevenly, almost stumbling over again. One— no, he has to keep a cool head. If he starts this up again now, he won't get another word in. "Jess. I'm sorry," he says, walking into the kitchen behind her. She keeps her back turned towards him, while she fills the kettle with fresh water.

"I don't ask for much, Joe," Jess says, putting the kettle on the stove. He stays silent, because after all this time he's learned the patterns of her arguments, valid or not, and knows she has more to say to him. He suspects it's much of the same he's heard before. "At least I don't think I do. I just want you to let me in."

"I shouldn't—" he starts, but shakes his head. No, this isn't the time for excuses, this isn't the time to say he knows how he can be, and he'll try to work on it for her. No, he needs to tell her exactly why he would. "I know you care for me. And I care for you a great deal." Just tell her, pure and simple, because life isn't easy, not with him, not for him, not even despite of her. "Love you, even," he adds; they might be the three most difficult words he's ever spoken in his lifetime, but they're the biggest compulsion driving him right now.

Jess releases another sigh, but there's something different about it; it sounds almost relieved. "Joe," she whispers and shakes her head, but still doesn't turn around.

"No, you're right. I shouldn't—" shouldn't take her for granted, obviously, but he should know she's there for him. Though God knows why. "Sometimes I just see what I want to see. It's how I make sense of the world. I know now that was wrong." He takes a few steps towards her, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Can you forgive me?" he asks carefully.

Jess releases a shuddery breath, and looks at him through wet eyelashes. Part of him fears that she'll beg him to repeat those three words, and he will of course, a hundred and fifty times over if he needs to, but most of all he just really needs her to forgive him. "Sure," Jess smiles weakly.

iv. April 23rd, 2010

Twenty-five. Twenty-five?

"Jess?" he asks softly, in case she's already fallen asleep.

"Hmm?" Jess hums, the sound of it vibrating against his chest.

"You wouldn't happen to know how many stains there are on your ceiling, would you?" He's counted twenty-five so far, but it's dark inside the room safe for the moonlight filtering in through the curtains, and he can't make out the lighter stains.

"Why are you counting those?" Jess asks, and he can feel it when she opens her eyes; her eyelashes tickle his skin. He doesn't know why he's counting them; maybe he's merely curious. But it really would help to have an answer.

"I was just thinking." He refrains from shrugging; he doesn't want to wake her up entirely.

"About?" Jess inquires.

"Why did you say yes to that cup of coffee?" That first day they met, November of last year. Has it really been six months already? When he had called his time spend with Jess courting in front of the rest of the team, he knows he should have kept it to himself. Kent hadn't said it in so many words, but even the youth had thought him old-fashioned.

"Which one?" Jess asks, because truly, there have been many coffees since that day.

"The first one," he answers. "When we met. I was sure you were going to turn me down." Sometimes there is still the fear that Jess will say enough is enough and will walk away from this thing they've got going on. The first time they'd fought about his compulsions she'd said they weren't in any love affair, no, they had a work relationship, because he was as high-maintenance as a child. He knows she regrets ever having said that, as people often do once tempers cooled down, but he knows it's partly true, too.

"Then why did you ask?" Jess mutters, breathing in deeply, the flow of air almost chilly against his skin.

"Don't know."

Jess chuckles. "I said yes because you looked like the kind of man a girl could trust." He doesn't know why she keeps calling herself a girl, though he supposes it has something to do with the decade of age difference between them. "Plus, the snow globe didn't read creep," Jess giggles, and straightens her body pliant against his. Joe laughs. "What?" Jess asks.

"Just—" He tightens his arm around her. "Thank you," he whispers, and kisses her forehead.

v. July 3rd, 2010

There's one, two, three—

four addresses they need to check. "Miles, do you think you could—" he starts, but the words catch in his throat when upon walking out of his office, he sees his team staring at the board. Have they finally learned its value then? Except when he follows Miles' gaze towards the corkboard-covered wall behind him, he realises they're watching someone rather than his tidy penmanship lining out their new case. "Jess," he says softly, smiling to himself. She's made it a habit of hers to bring him his lunch.

Today, however, she doesn't turn at the sound of his voice. Instead she raises her hands towards one of the photos on the board and pulls it from its assigned place between the others. "Jess, please don't touch that." Joe rushes towards her, but she's already pinning it back up, in the exact same spot, just turned upside down.

"I'm just turning it the right way up," Jess says, staring up at him wide-eyed, innocence herself.

"The—" He frowns, words forming on his lips, but only stares back at the picture. "Do you know what this is?" he asks, and sees Jess stare back up at it too.

"It's a painting by a local artist," she answers. He can only find himself staring at her in bewilderment. She might have just given them exactly the lead they needed to get this case off the ground. "His name is Darren Stanley."

One of the desk chairs in the room creaks, Miles' he guesses, because before he knows it his partner is by his side. "Do you have an address for this guy?" Miles asks, staring at Jess in much the same way he assumes he is.

"It's just down Kingsley Road," Jess answers, equally confused. "Blue little gallery, can't miss it."

"Jessica, love, I could bloody kiss you right now," Miles exclaims, and turns, making a grab for the grey coat perched in a mess on the top of his desk. He's out of the door before anyone else in the room has a chance to respond. Joe knows Miles expects him to follow, and everything in him tells him to take off right away. But something stops him short quite unexpectedly.

He leans in swiftly, and presses a kiss to Jess' lips. "Good thing you're dating the boss," he smiles, and meets with Jess' big blue eyes. His actions surprise her, he can tell, and he admits it's not his usual manner to be so open about his affections towards anyone, but then this is Jess. And Jess means the world to him.

vi. December 25th, 2010

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

"Happy Christmas!" everyone screams in unison, the countdown run out and the date officially turning to the December 25th. Joe hugs Jess, and kisses her underneath the mistletoe Miles is holding over their heads. There's jokes between Joe, Jess, Miles and his wife, and laughter coming from the next room, Miles' children playing with the presents they got.

It's the first time in forever that he doesn't spend both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his mother, but Joe knows she doesn't mind. Though recently, she's been asking him about grandchildren even more frequently, embarrassingly enough with Jess in the room sometimes.

"Oh, I want loads of kids," Jess had said, giggling to herself once she'd taken notice of the panic striking his face, and the sheer rapture taking hold of his mother's face.

Jess is fearless. It should scare him senseless, but it doesn't, which makes even less sense to begin with.

That's probably why he's going to ask her to marry him tonight.

He's fairly certain she'll say yes.

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