Work Text:
Constable Hobbs was transcribing the last telegram at hand when Inspector Reid walked in and told him to fetch the American. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in the dimly lit hallway, knocking on the surgeon’s door with a slight frown. His ears met many groans before a sleepy Jackson emerged, took a look at the boy, and closed the door again.
“Gimme a sec. I’m gonna get somethin’ .”
It wasn’t until half an hour later that they appeared at the front door. “No carriage for me?” Standing on the muddy street, Jackson folded his arms, “Not going.”
“But, sir, the Inspector… …”
“C’mon,” Jackson laughed heartily at the desperate protest. He put an arm around Hobbs’s tense shoulders and gave him a little bump. “I’d want nothing but a nice walk with you.”
The captain’s bag that looked particularly chunky drew forth quite a few curious glances from the young constable, whose shiny shoes made dainty, even clicks on the pavement alongside Jackson’s dusty ones. Upon reaching their destination, they discovered the victims—some branches and logs—and the job—to figure out how the pieces always ended up in H-Division’s parking lot for the past three mornings.
Hobbs tied his apron and followed at Jackson’s heels, confused. Jackson let him watch first as he examined a piece of wood, scraping off some earth. He sniffed the air and asked, “You mind opening the window, Hobbs?” “Yes, sir.”
Hobbs couldn’t resist glancing at Jackson’s bag as he lifted the panels and let in the cool winter air. A while later, a gust of wind gave him an involuntary shudder. Jackson yawned and stretched for a moment before muttering nonchalantly, “Shut the windows for me, will ya?” “Sir.”
The captain had a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he tweaked and poked at his subjects, explaining now and then how the apparatuses worked and how he came up with certain observations. Time passed. He shook the liquid in one test tube, sighed, smelled the content in another tray, groaned, examined something under the microscope, rolled his eyes, and eventually threw aside his tools altogether.
“You know what, Hobbs? It’s lunchtime.”
Hobbs ran to boil water in a big flask as told, while Jackson revealed the contents in his bag. The constable’s eyes grew big at the two very large potatoes. He peeled and cut them with great eagerness alongside Jackson and watched the chunks boil in the crystal water he refilled in the flask. Suppressing a smile, he prepared their “table” as Jackson mashed the steaming mixture that soon filled the room with the sweet aroma of milk and butter. The American then came over to the neat little arrangement of plates, spoons, and forks and put an arm across Hobbs’s shoulders, “let’s eat, shall we?”
Under Jackson’s casual hospitality, Hobbs nodded and grinned from ear to ear. The mashed, golden potatoes were so soft that it melted in his mouth, and the bread and meat were equally appealing; Jackson watched with an amicable smirk at Hobbs’s expression as the boy savored his spoonfuls. They sat side by side on the stools and munched on their simple meal.
After cleaning their plates, the pair returned to their work, Hobbs with shining eyes and Jackson with a newly-lit cigarette. However, the investigation was cut short in the afternoon, for the solution came with Sergeant Drake and a few constables, who had caught a bunch of children pulling pranks on the police station. Later that evening, as he sorted documents at the front desk, Hobbs couldn’t help but smile, when no one was around, at memories of the warm lunch and the playful blink from Captain Jackson before the surgeon left the station. Forensics weren’t always gruesome.