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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."

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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?"

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MORSE TAKES THE JACKET. A furious blush spreads across his cheeks at the sight of Aedus' smile, and he quickly looks away, directing his gaze to the floor. He slips the jacket around his own shoulders. Immediately, the warmth soothes him, and though he'd planned not to show how much he needed it, he finds himself sinking into it, pulling the jacket tighter around him. His body finds new ways to betray him every time he's in the company of Aedus, it seems; his stiff shoulders have relaxed at the warmth, even as he feels himself tense with flustered uncertainty a few moments later. "Thank you," he says, head still turned away to avoid eye contact. "Do you-- um." Somewhere warmer. "We could go to my flat, if you'd like. We're not too far, if we turn left here... but I'm afraid it isn't generally much warmer." Finally, he chances a glance over with a sheepish smile.

Despite the lowering temperature's lack of effect on himself, it didn't mean Aedus was oblivious to it. Taking note of the goosebumps rising on Morse's skin. Those subtle signs that proved, without word, that the brisk breeze was beginning to take a toll. Thus, fabric shrugged from his own shoulders and offered out. A shake of his head gently dismissing the other man's concerns with a smile, warmth to mirror that beneath his skin. " Oh, no, I'm quite comfortable, in fact. I would much rather you have it. At least until we're able to get inside somewhere warmer. "

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MORSE DOES AS HE'S TOLD. A twofold rush comes with being obedient to this sort of instruction, and while he's attempted to hide both strands of excitement in the past, he rarely succeeds at feigning indifference. There's the rush of working to bring her pleasure, setting his mind and fingers to such a task, and then there's the rush of being good for her, doing as he's told, getting it so right... he aches to please her. So he does that lovely thing with his thumb and finds a slow rhythm with his fingers. He continues to rock himself gently, a subconscious, pleased movement in response to her touches, in rhythm with the stroking and curling of his fingers as he drinks in her reactions.

His hand finding its way between her legs causes a shiver of delighted anticipation to run through her. She presses into it and hugs him tightly and sighs into his hair before instructing, "Use your fingers. Nice and slow. Two inside me and do that lovely thing with your thumb." Joan never would have dared to have such specific instructions to any previous partner, but it's clear enough that Morse likes it, at least sometimes, and she trusts him not to be offended by her knowing what she wants. She uses her own hands to lightly comb through and tug his hair and to gently scratch and firmly rub down his spine.

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WOULDN'T IT? Perhaps not for her. Whichever part of Morse it is that she likes, if she could find that within a more acceptable, suitable man, then perhaps it wouldn't be unbearable at all for her. For Morse, though, it would be infinitely worse. Not that he'd ever want this situation for her -- for her father to insist on trying to pair her up with 'suitable' men that she never likes -- but he'd be lying if he said he isn't glad, each time she comes away hating every man brought in to try and win her heart. There may not be hope of ever being truly hers in the way he wishes to be, but at least this way, he doesn't have to watch as she falls in love with someone who isn't him. Whoever that man is, this perfectly constructed, perfectly suitable man who glimmers with whichever puzzle-piece of Morse Joan desires, Morse hopes he doesn't exist.

IT'S A SELFISH WISH. Unbelievably selfish, and ugly. Morse can feel it swimming in his head as he tries to smile at her. It's no use trying to wish his desire away. No matter what he does, he still finds he'd rather they stay like this, with her just out of his reach but close enough to graze with his fingertips, than have to watch her dance into the arms of another man. "Perhaps tonight will be the night," he says lightly, with a smile that his pain-filled eyes turn into a grimace. "I wouldn't have thought your father has managed to introduce you to every suitable man in the country yet, even with how often he insists you attend these events." He imagines Thursday probably wouldn't appreciate his tone, there. "Is there anything I can do for you, besides my usual duties? To make your evening more tolerable?"

She turns her head to him, one eyebrow raised and doubt written across her expression, and then he adds that he'll be there and she can't help but smile fondly at the reminder. If only it was only him, and there was nothing for him to save her from. That would be lovely.

"Thank you, Morse," she says, something heavy under her voice. She looks away from him and back into the mirror to quickly finish her hair, then she turns to him fully. "If even one of them was the slightest bit like you, this whole bizarre situation wouldn't be nearly so unbearable."

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HE ISN'T GOING TO BE OKAY. How can he be? Morse shakes his head again, shutting his eyes tightly. Nothing that feels this wrong can ever be made right, can it? He can't imagine sensation beyond the white walls of this hospital room, beyond the cold, absent sting across all his exposed skin, beyond the deep ache in his chest for something, anything to be different than it is right now. All he can do, all he can think of doing, is curl himself tighter and press against the arm hugging him. Even that isn't enough. In a desperate attempt to soothe himself, he rubs the fist clenched to his body firmly against the centre of his chest, up and down, knuckles pressing hard against his sternum. It hurts, but he can focus on the sensation, instead of the empty, void-like feeling inside him and the way it aches for something he can't identify.

She really, desperately wishes she could fix it all--that she could take away Morse's fear and pain. But without that ability, at least she can be here. She squeezes his hand back and when he curls up, she scooches him enough that she can sort of get on the bed with him again and hug him tightly with her free hand. "You're getting better every day. No matter what you're feeling or seeing, it's temporary. You're going to be okay."

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HE ISN'T. He isn't doing really great at all. He's more aware of where he is now, and he knows she's really here with him, but everything else... everything else is wrong. His mind isn't working properly, everything feels bad, and he doesn't understand why or how to fix it. All it takes is one look across at Joan's face, as though she's laying beside him, and Morse's face crumples. He grips her hand tightly and starts to shake his head. He pulls his free arm tight to his chest and draws his legs up, curling up in the smallest ball he can manage with his poor coordination, taking little shuddering breaths.

That's not what she was hoping for, but it's something. At least she knows he can still speak at least a little and he recognizes her. "I'm right here," she responds. "I know it's scary, Morse. I know, but you're doing really great." She leans forward, her head pillowed on one arm, so she's still roughly face-to-face with him, and she takes one of his hands.

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SLOWLY. Slowly. His eyes flick up to her, like he's not sure that he does have time, but seems to believe her anyway and doesn't try to drink any faster than she lets him. As soon as he's had enough water, he lays back down. Sitting up at all is tiring and makes him dizzy. The question that comes next seems to be several questions in one, so it takes him a long while to work them through in his head. He doesn't initially link them up, so he struggles trying to process a question of whether he can do 'something' without knowing what the 'something' is, and begins to look slightly upset by this. Then he begins to connect the words. A yes or no question. Give her a word. Does he understand? He does... he does, he thinks. And it's taken his mind this long to work that out, and that's not right. He doesn't feel right. He feels all wrong. Everything is all wrong. His eyes move to meet hers again, suddenly tear-filled. "...Joan," he finally says, in a small, broken voice.

"Hey hey! Morse, darling," she scolds as she pulls the water gently away before he adds drowning to his list of problems. Then she softens again. "Slowly. Just slowly, okay? You have time." She helps him even more, ensuring she has control over the speed of the water, and when the glass is empty, she refills it and offers him some more.

"Can you do something for me now, Morse? Can you just answer a yes or no question for me? Give me a word. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

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MORSE WATCHES HER INTENTLY. It takes him some time to process what he's seeing, which shows in his mildly confused expression, but he relaxes slightly when she sips the water. This isn't a trick, then, being played by someone else or his own mind. She drank the water. So, he can drink the water. He begins to sit up, but it's a challenge. He feels very wobbly, and needs the help she gives him. The first sip he takes of the water makes him realise exactly how thirsty he is, so then he tries to drink much more quickly, and nearly chokes.

She'd hoped for at least a not, but Joan trues not to be disappointed. She kisses his hand, then she points to the pitcher of water set in the corner of the room. "I'm going to go get you some. I won't leave your sight and I'll be right back, okay?" This time, she knows better than to expect a response, and she only waits a moment before reluctantly releasing his hand and moving to do just as she'd said, pouring a glass of water, then bringing it right back over. She sips from it first, as though trying to show a frightened animal that it's safe, then she helps Morse to sit up just enough to drink some if he's willing.

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MORSE STARES DOWN AT HIS OWN HANDS. "I'm glad," he says quietly. "That your mind didn't go there." He wouldn't wish it on anyone. "I wish mine had other places to go." But he was young when he lost her, and so his memories are few and faded. He holds on with tight, desperate hands to the memories of tenderness and the scent of her hair; they're surrounded by memories of her sickness and his grief. The crackers, he leaves on his lap once Julian has eaten one. He doesn't mention them, in the hope that Julian might be tempted to have another.

"I did, though. I wasn’t thinking about it, but I knew." And that makes it so much worse than if he hadn’t known anything. He frowns at the crackers, sad and annoyed, but also resigned now, and after a long moment, he takes one of them and eats it like it's a chore. Then he settles back against Morse's side to pout a little longer.

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SOMEONE DRUGGED HIM? Oh. Well, that explains why everything feels wrong, then. But... drugged? Drugged. Morse spends a little while stumbling over that word, trying to process the idea. It's only when she brushes his hair back that he's brought back to the present and blinks, delayed once again in processing the words coming out of her mouth. He just stares back at her for a few moments, silent, until the word 'water' sinks in. It occurs to him that his mouth feels very dry. Nodding feels too difficult right now, so he looks around, searching for this water she's talking about.

As soon as his hand starts to move, her heart soars, but she waits for him to get all the way there before curling her fingers around his palm and squeezing tightly. "Hi," she repeats. "You're in the hospital. Someone drugged you." She lets that sink in, then, "You really gave me a scare with this one." She reaches with her other hand to brush his hair back. "Could you drink some water, do you think? Or at least try?"

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HE'S MADE JULIAN FEEL BAD. That wasn't the aim. He looks away. "Yes. Um. But it was a long time ago. I was twelve. When she died." As if that makes it better. Morse cringes at himself. "It's... alright." It's not. All these years, and he's still not alright about it. At all. "You didn't know." He reaches for the plate on the bedside table, unable to look at Julian any longer. "Plain crackers. Will you try and eat one?"

"Your mother was sick?" He knew that, he realizes, but the information feels much different now. "Seriously sick. I'm sorry. When I said- when I said I wouldn’t die, I didn't think... I wasn't lying, but still. I shouldn't have."

Ge doesn't want to eat, but he probably wouldn't throw up. He wishes he could tell Morse that without actually telling him anything. He winds his fingers in the material of Morse's shirt and says nothing instead, hoping he's been sufficiently distracted from the question.

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HIS HEAD FEELS LIKE IT'S FULL OF FOG. His mind is working, but slowly, languidly, like his thoughts are pulling themselves through thick syrup to get anywhere. He's been staring at Joan for a little while when she wakes, trying to work out how long she's been here, how long he's been here, and, in fact, where here is. All thoughts of any such thing are scattered easily by distraction; when she offers him her hand, all his efforts are redirected to responding. That takes him a while, too. Slowly, he reaches out. The movement is uncoordinated and shaky, but he gets there in the end, placing his hand clumsily on hers and then curling his fingers around it. His gaze flicks up to meet hers, uncertain. He can't remember how he got here -- for all he knows, he's losing his mind entirely, and he isn't supposed to reach out for her hand.

Watching Morse alternate between complete and utter terror and terrifying stillness has done something awful to her, but when Joan first wakes to the movement next to her and sees him roll over, his posture shifting to exactly the same as it is at home, she nearly cries with joy. She sits up and winces at a twinge in her back, then she leans in to stroke his hair regardless of her own discomfort, soothing him as he falls back to sleep.

When she next jolts back into awareness, he's already awake and looking at her, and her chest tightens as she reaches out to offer him her hand, palm up and unthreatening. "Hello, love."

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SHE'S SO BEAUTIFUL. Morse accomplishes his goal of getting her upper half undressed, but it soon results in a change in her focus, which he notices. He doesn't quite understand, at first, until he notices the blush. Once he sees that, it's obvious, really. It's a feeling he knows well. He lets her pull him close, but only temporarily. She did say earlier that she likes it when he fights her a little, didn't she? That's permission enough to misbehave a little bit. Morse squirms and wraps his leg properly around her. She may have gotten his trousers undone, but she can hardly remove them with him wrapped around her like this. She'll have to move him if she wants them off. And when she inevitably succeeds at dislodging him, hopefully, she'll have forgotten all about feeling self-conscious, and he'll have his opportunity to appreciate her body.

When he starts fumbling with her buttons, Joan looks back up at his face, pleased, and leans up to kiss his nose. She lets him undress her as much as he likes, and focuses her own attention on getting his trousers undone. Her attention shifts sharply back to his hands and gaze on her though, as soon as her stomach is exposed. She'd love to be able to let go of the self-consciousness, especially since she knows he doesn't mind, but she's still a little ashamed of the way her body has changed post-pregnancy, and getting back to her confidence of a year ago is an ongoing process. She blushes and waits, to see what he'll do, and after a moment, she just pulls him close enough that he can't easily look anymore.