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That night Fred takes Win by the shoulders and leads her to bed, hair still loose without her curlers. It's easier to lie close. Easier to fit her head against the curve of his shoulder, easier by far to make love without hurting or pulling at her hair. And they do, close and desperate and clinging in the dark. Win's body is the compass he realigns himself on.
Today isn't left at the hall stand. Today he's carried home, all the way up to bed, but Win's carried it too. Her grip digs into his back, not scratching but holding, and the whisper that their baby is safe puts him over the edge; some defiant animal satisfaction, huffing into the darkness. His fingers are wide, blunt, and if they shake helping Win get there she'll never say.
He tucks her head under his chin, and holds tight, and manages for the first time in weeks not to cough. Win's head shifts against his chest, pressing close against his heart, and he runs his hand slow and easy over her hair and lets her listen as long as she will.
Morning comes to bring the lie to his triumph. The house is cold. Joanie is gone. Win is gutted, and Morse stands in the hallway looking lost and young.
Fred feels lost and old.
He finishes dressing, and the bullet in its bloody handkerchief is still where he'd emptied his pockets the night before. He folds it up and puts it in his coat, it's not a thing to leave Win to find.
Neither of them is due at the nick, but they go all the same. Morse beelines for his desk and the workup from both of yesterday's cases, but Thursday is still suspended, and his office is a shell, a skin that won't settle on him. Not today.
He listens to Bright recount the showdown at the bank, a masterful retelling that highlights all of Morse's ingenuity and Strange's initiative, and carries no mention at all of Thursday's illegal service revolver, now back in the garden shed under lock and key.
There's an embarrassing heat in the sensibility of being protected, rather than protector, and Bright makes for an unlikely guardian. But the little hand on Thursday's arm is bloody strong.
"Thank you, sir." He puts what he hasn't the words for into his voice.
"Yes, well, Thursday, carry on. We'll see you back here in a few weeks, and then, I hope, we can put the whole mess behind us."
He closes the door to Bright's office gentle, and feels it click. Steps out of the building.
Clinic first. There's a sandwich in his pocket, 'cause Win wouldn't let him go without. Tears folded up in the waxed paper. For Joanie. For not knowing. He needs to know if he'll be giving her more grief.
The doctor takes him without appointment, brows furrowed, but when Thursday passes over the bullet he takes his glasses off and polishes them, and the tension that leaves his stance lets some of the stuff in Fred uncoil. The stethoscope is cold through Thursday's vest, and sets him off coughing- but only the once, and it settles instead of rattling him apart.
When the doc folds everything away, and shakes Thursday's hand, it's with the warning that he keep warm in winter months, avoid colds, not smoke too heavily until his lungs have had time to heal. Take care for the future, a future that stretches forward again with the possibility of living it.
He takes as deep a breath as he can, reaching the street, until his lungs strain with it. The air tastes good, just on the edge of too much, and so he greets Morse with a startled cough when the man peels away from the wall and falls into step beside him.
"I thought you might need a lift."
"Did you. Come on, then, we'll go and have lunch."
They find a table, and Thursday turns the bullet over in his hands while Morse gets their round. When Morse sits, he passes it over, and watches relief, disgust, and something very like joy compete across the lad's face.
"Alright, give it back. No need to upset yourself."
Morse swallows, clears his throat, and reaches for his pint.
"I know I've been a bit of a powder keg. And I owe you an apology."
Morse opens his mouth, but Fred doesn't want to know how he'd try to spin it. He needs this clear.
"You were right. I did want to hurt somebody. Only I managed to hurt you and Joanie." He turned the glass in his hand. "I didn't want that."
"I know. She knows."
"Shouldn't matter how long a man's got. You've got to be good to the people who matter." The glass tilts, the beer spins a slow tide. "I should have handled myself better." Should have never given Joanie a reason to be scared of her own dad. Never given Morse a reason to watch him so warily.
"I'm sorry."
Morse takes it. Considers it, so Thursday can see him turning it over and around in his head. And then he smiles, just a little. "Accepted." Thursday grips his wrist, and that little smile turns into a grin. "And sir? Ham and tomato."
Fred laughs, and pulls out his sandwich. It is ham and tomato. And it tastes like being loved.