dccontramundum

[dccontramundum]

HE'LL SETTLE FOR THAT. It would be much easier if she would take the lead, though, now that they've reached some kind of agreement, because he can still feel her looking at him and that still feels very intense. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, then finally decides facing his mother-in-law might be alright now. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "Let's... go inside. Does Mrs Thursday know where you've been?" If he's going to have to lie, or back up a lie, he'd like the chance to prepare.

She pauses for probably too long. She's not bothered by her husband avoiding eye contact, but she doesn't stop looking at him, like he obviously wants her to. Finally, she nods. "I'll think about it." And they both know that that's the most she'll concede to. Gently, she kisses him, then she settles fully back into her own seat.

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"I KNOW." Of course he knows that. And now she's looking at him, specifically pulling back to do so, and that never fails to make him flush slightly to feel her gaze on his face. "Just... there are other ways. Think about it... please?" His eyes dart up, very briefly, to make hesitant eye contact. He can't stand that for more than a second before he looks away again.

"I can't know. Nobody can know. We still have to do our best to do the right thing." Joan tucks her face down against his neck and gives him one more tight squeeze before relaxing somewhat and pulling back to get a good look at his face. "I don't plan to spend my life always expecting the worst."

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HE LEANS AWKWARDLY IN. Hugging is difficult in a car, so it isn't as comforting as he hoped. "But... you don't know." He's already said this. He's going round in circles, which is what usually happens when they disagree. "It could be just the same in this situation. You don't know until you-- until you stumble into it." Just as he stumbled into that, simply because he was trying to do the right thing.

Oh. Admittedly, she hadn't thought through how terrible that argument would be for Morse, specifically, given his previous experience being framed by other police. She hugs him again, tight and desperate, and closes her eyes. "I think it's a different situation, darling. But I'll be more careful."

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MORSE SHAKES HIS HEAD QUICKLY. "No, um. No. Mrs Thursday is in there." She might be his mother-in-law, but he still doesn't want her to see him like this! Even the thought embarrasses him. "It's-- it's not career-ending. Not for some. You-- well, you would've thought 'group of corrupt senior police and politicians pin murder on detective and send him to prison' would be career-ending, wouldn't you? But it wasn't. It wasn't even a headline. If they want it kept quiet, it'll be kept quiet."

It's awkward, in the car, but she hugs him as tightly as she can. He deserves to be less tortured over this, and if she could just ease his unnecessary worry, she'd do it in a heartbeat. But she can't, so the hug will have to do. "I love you. You know that. I love you. But something could happen to me anywhere. This isn't that much worse than anywhere else. It's better, in some ways, because random criminals don't have to think about the headlines. Detective's wife killed by police brutality during peaceful protest--that's career-ending. It makes people think twice." She's quiet for a moment, then she relaxes her grip and eases back into her own seat. "Let's go inside. You can hold your daughter--that always makes you feel better."

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HE LETS HIS CHEEK BE KISSED. But it doesn't soothe the worry written all over his face. "But you don't-- you can't know that nobody will do anything terrible to you. You can't. And I can't stop it." If he can't put it right, if he can't predict it, understand it, solve it, then how can he protect her? How can he protect anyone? Morse stares desperately at her, so very clearly wanting a solution that doesn't exist, and so very clearly knowing it, too. It's the way the world works -- and it's broken his heart so many times already.

Joan reaches across to take his hand, threading her fingers carefully throughy his. "Darling. The only reason I'm hurt is because I was shielding other people--people who would've gotten hurt much worse than I was. I'm connected to the police. To you. Nobody's going to do anything terrible to me, no matter how obnoxious I am. But the people who are actually affected by these protests? They could be killed, if someone white, someone with privilege doesn't shield them while they say their piece. So I can't just say I won't do it again, love, any more than you can say you won't put yourself in danger to protect people." She shakes her head, but then she scoots closer and pulls him so she can kiss his cheek. "I'm safe. I've been safe. And I'll do a lot to make you feel better. I'll tell you where I'm going and when, if you like. I'll introduce you around. I'll stay away from anything where violence can be expected. But I can't just stop."

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HE SIGHS, TURNING HIS HEAD AWAY IN FRUSTRATION. "Not do it again? If you have to-- to protest -- can't you find a different way? Just-- just not like that. Not when people get hurt so easily. Not when it puts you at risk." His eyes are shining with unshed tears when he finally turns his head back to look at her, and he doesn't try to hide it any longer. "Y-you mean the world... to me."

"I never said I was invincible." Joan looks at him again for a moment, and doesn't move to get out of the car. "Mum is with the baby." Which he could have guessed, but it means their home isn't empty and they should probably finish this conversation now. "What do you want me to do, then?"

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"NO. People don't generally intend to be dragged into things. It just happens. It could happen to you. You're not-- no matter how good your intentions are, you're not immune. You're not invincible. The moral high ground won't save you from being-- from being hurt, or killed." When he pulls up outside their home, it's with frustration that he brakes firmly, unhappy to be losing his excuse not to look at her now that he's stopped driving. "It's not a promise you can make."

She'd like to think she's sensible enough to avoid being pulled into extremism or to keep herself from getting killed. She turns her face forward again and quietly folds the bloody handkerchief to tuck it into a pocket for later. "Will it help if I promise not to be dragged into other matters?" she asks, slightly irritated by his lack of faith in her.

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SCARING HIM. That makes it sound like all she's done is jump out at him from around a corner. "You could've gotten mixed up in something far less peaceful than you intended. You could've been seriously hurt, or killed. I've seen people killed in that sort of thing. I've seen people dragged into other matters by the people they get involved with through this sort of thing. You have no idea." He can feel her eyes on him, but he doesn't glance over at her even once, keeping his head determinedly still, eyes fixed on the road.

"I do know that isn't the most important thing to you, but I should have planned ahead better. If you knew what was happening, it probably wouldn't have interrupted your work day and given your coworkers more ammunition." He might not be bothered, by this point, but she's certainly bothered on his behalf by the things his coworkers already say about him. She doesn't like that she's the reason it will be worse for a while, and for all he might disagree now, she's fairly certain that he will care when they started bringing her into their teasing. "And you can't possibly expect me to be sorry for peacefully protesting discriminatory practices. Somebody has to." She takes a deep breath and looks out the window, then turns back to look at him properly. "I'm sorry for scaring you, too. I can't imagine you like seeing me hurt like this any better than you do in any other circumstance."

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HIS EYEBROWS LIFT IN SURPRISE. "Embarrassing me?" he repeats in disbelief. "That's what you're sorry for? I don't care that you embarrassed me. I wasn't embarrassed. Enduring mockery and humiliation is part of the job, in my case." He goes silent again, then, shaking his head as he focuses on making a turn. "I would've thought you would know me better than that, by now." When has he ever cared that much about other people's opinions? Especially those of the people he works with. He's embarrassed himself more times than he can count, just by going about his day and his work, and he's never let that become more important to him than anything else.

She winces. He's right, unfortunately, and she certainly has no intentions of stopping just because she knows now what the consequences can be. Still, he deserves to know that this wasn't a deliberate attempt to hurt him. She increases her own volume slightly, trying to sound more sure than she is, and responds, "I'm sorry for embarrassing you. I didn't- I should have told you what I was doing, at least. I didn't plan to be arrested."

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"ARE YOU?" His own voice is at a normal volume, not taking her whisper as a cue whether she meant it as one or not. They've made it to the car, and that makes things easier -- he doesn't have to look at her while they talk, on the drive home. "What are you sorry for, exactly? Because I think you'd do it again tomorrow."

There's redness across her cheekbone that will settle into uncomfortably-familiar bruises soon enough, and the skin of her arm has already taken on a purplish tinge, which she would have hidden if her cardigan wasn't around someone else's shoulders. The fact that he doesn't touch her only makes her feel worse, but when he says they're going, she gets up and she goes, only sending a regretful grimace over her shoulder at the other women in the cell. She wants to lean into his side as they walk, to feel the warmth and safety of his arm around her, but she doesn't dare. Not while there are others around and she can only guess at how he's feeling about her. She's quiet, and she's obedient, and it's so different from their usual dynamic. She hates it. Only when they're truly alone does she finally speak up, and it's hardly more than a whisper. "I'm sorry."

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"JOAN." What else can he say, when he sees her? In a cell, of all the places, visibly hurt, visibly afraid. The only good thing about seeing her here is that it means she's not more seriously injured and in hospital, or worse. That singular positive does absolutely nothing to tint the colour of this situation back from the greyness of all-encompassing fear, concern and frustration. He's closer to her now, eyes wide and moving rapidly to search her for anything he's missed -- injuries, clues as to what she was thinking -- and he only looks away when he finds nothing and refocuses for a second too long on the bloody handkerchief. Even now, at this most inconvenient time, the sight makes him nauseous. He swallows hard. "Let's go," he says, with a briefest look back at her, just long enough to make it clear he expects to see her following.

semi-plotted starter for @dccontramundum

Joan has never been arrested before. As a policeman's daughter, she's always known what to avoid to stay out of trouble, and, she supposes, she should know now too, as a policeman's wife. But she has privileges that others don't, and if she doesn't use them to better the world, what good is she? So, she does her very best to keep her fear under wraps, even after she's shoved into the crowded cell with a wrenched elbow and a bloody nose. After all, she won't be there for very long. The worst part... Well, the worst part is embarrassing her husband, who doesn't deserve that at all.

She's got her head tilted down, handkerchief pressed to her nose to catch the blood, when she hears his voice and looks up. She freezes, eyes wide with all that suppressed, irrational fear, and wishes she knew what to say. She has just enough presence of mind to realize that he doesn't deserve that either--witnessing her fear--because she's not afraid of him. She's just sorry. Sorry that this is likely to affect his career and his relationship with his colleagues. But not sorry enough to say it, because in the end, hasn't she been doing the right thing?

So she doesn't say anything back. She just looks down again and waits for him to say something else.

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MORSE FREEZES. Though he isn't physically hiding anything on his person, it still feels exactly like having a flashlight pointed straight at him while he's trying to sink into the shadows. Looking both startled and intensely guilty, he blinks at her, trying to formulate a response. "No," he tries, looking away from her as soon as the word leaves his mouth. Eye contact with her feels intense all on his own, so he doesn't want it while he's attempting to lie. "It's really fine. Just a long day, that's all."

"That's helpful." It's not, really, but she appreciates the effort all the same. "And I suppose we'll just find out together, if there's things you really can't stand." She pauses, just looking at him, then, gently, she says, "Your head still hurts, doesn’t it? I think that grenade incident was more serious than you let on."

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A WARM KISS IN THE COLD RAIN. That makes it worth it all on its own. He melts into it, eyes closing briefly, then smiles at Julian's words. He's not smiling a moment later when they begin to walk. The wind lashes the rain against them, unrelenting, and even the small comfort of holding Julian's hand isn't enough to distract Morse from the way his exposed skin stings with cold. It's going to take forever to get warm again. There is a shortcut on their way home, and Morse tugs Julian's hand in that direction so they can take it, but even then, the walk is long enough that they're both going to be absolutely soaked through by the time they get home.

Julian smiles and stops in place for just long enough to use his free hand to cup Morse's face and bring him in for a kiss. "I'm a big boy, Morse; I can handle a little rain. But I appreciate the gesture nonetheless." He pushes some of the wet hair off his forehead, then kisses his cheek too before pushing forward again. They're going against the wind, which is just their luck.

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MORSE TAKES HIS HAND. It's cold and wet like his own, but it still feels better to hold it. He squeezes it, ducking his head at the question as they turn to walk in the direction of home. "No," he lies, initially, but upon realising he doesn't actually have another reason prepared for him to be out here, he admits it instead. "Well, yes. But I don't mind the rain. And... it's worth it, anyway. I didn't like to think of you walking on your own." Cold and wet is bad enough, but cold, wet and lonely? Even worse. Unacceptably worse.

@dccontramundum sent:

"Let's go home."

Morse has met him at the bus station. As soon as he steps off the bus and into the torrential downpour, he sees him, just as soaked through, waiting. Julian's heart aches beautifully with the sudden reminder of his love for that beautiful man. "Alright," he agrees, and takes four steps closer to reach out for his hand. "Did you come out in this just to walk with me?"

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OF COURSE HE IS. His grin only widens at the accusation as he gazes up at her, leaning his head into her hand trustingly. "Mmhm." He's very pleased at his plan's success, but he's also pleased in general. "I'm married to you." That's reason enough to be pleased for the rest of his life. Morse squirms the rest of the way out of his trousers, seeing as his shower of affection did halt her attempt to remove them. Then he goes back in to press another flurry of kisses to her skin, just because it made her smile the first time and because he particularly likes kissing her stomach, so he does that several times. He did it a lot while she was pregnant. Now he presses little kisses to the stretch marks left behind, full of nothing but love for every feature of her body.

Her husband is, without a doubt, the sweetest man who has ever been placed upon this earth. His sudden movement down catches her entirely off-guard, but the way he kisses her... All over like every inch of her is worth loving, and Joan brings one hand up to partially cover her smile even as she has to blink back tears. Tears of devotion, she supposes, though maybe it's just a reaction to the alcohol. She combs his hair back away from his face and lets the pad of her thumb drag over the slight stubble on his jaw. "Pleased, are you? I suppose you deserve to be."

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AH, NOT YET, HE HASN'T. He can't stop smiling to himself about his devious plan. Being kissed certainly won't distract him... not completely, anyway. He does get a little sidetracked. Just for a moment. But when he feels her dislodge his leg, he refocuses and goes for an immediate position change, shifting himself lower on the bed. He hopes she's not expecting it, given how much he was clearly enjoying the kisses. Now he's got chance, he puts his hands on her hips and delivers a flurry of little kisses to her body, from her chest down to her stomach. Then he stops, and looks back up at her with a grin, pleased with himself.

She hugs him tightly and presses her nose happily into his neck for a moment, pleased that her distraction has worked, but then he does an impression of a clingy octopus and she has to laugh. "Alright!" she allows, still half-laughing. "You've made your point!" which she assumes is that he can and will still be as difficult as he likes to be. Joan strokes his right thigh affectionately, like it's a cat on her lap instead of her partner making a nuisance of himself, then she pulls herself back just enough to kiss him again and tries to keep him occupied with that while she dislodges his legs to finish getting his trousers off.

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HAVE THEY TOLD HIM WHAT'S UP? A scowl crosses Morse's face almost immediately. "Morse," he replies. "If by that you mean have I been briefed, then yes. If you mean have I been given a full explanation, then no." He'd been ordered here, in the end, despite his protests about usually working alone and not wanting to have to tag along on someone else's investigation. "I hope you have more details than I was given."

@dccontramundum

1968 had been quite the year. Rebellions, war, protests that got out of hand. Most of it hadn't directly impacted France, not to the extent that it would touch a private detective's world; but May... the merry month of May was not quite so merry this year. Still that meant little to Javert, apart from a personal distaste for the ruckus. But someone had decided to use it as cover, and this was where he came in.

A client had approached him, telling a tale of a daughter whose boyfriend was shady and both had disappeared. She had money, so the family needed to know the situation and preferably retrieve their daughter. A little digging had revealed a flight to England. Javert had shown up, deciding it was better not to ask permission (and forget about forgiveness; that wasn't forthcoming). They fobbed him off on some young detective who he assumed was barely out of uniform.

"Javert," he offered by way of introduction, without even a hand to shake. "They told you what's up?"