Morse awoke with a jolt as the car came to a stop. Without meaning to he hugged the coat around him tighter fighting the cold that had only worsened as he slept.
The passenger door opened and DeBryn’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.” Getting inside was easier said than done. They took frequent breaks for Morse to regain his equilibrium. He was becoming unnecessarily familiar with the pattern of the stones making up the walkway. It was taking all his concentration to keep his footing.
“I’m not drunk.” This was important.
“Morse, we’ve been over this. I know. You’re not drunk”, he gave a half sigh as he fumbled with one arm around Morse’s waist and the other unlocking the unassuming townhouse door. Just after stumbling over the threshold he felt DeBryn’s coat falling from his shoulders. Stooping to pick it up he felt the all too familiar white hot pain in his side and curled involuntarily hands held protectively around his middle. There was a ringing in his ears and a darkening tint to his vision as DeBryn hastily steered him sharply to the left depositing him into a chair and taking a firm hand to the back of his head to push it gently between his knees.
“Slow, deep breaths”, he instructed.
He gulped air greedily trying to move as little as possible. He closed his eyes but the room still pitched and swayed. He needed a steady point to focus on but upon opening his eyes all he saw were his own blood stained hands. His stomach lurched and seconds later found himself retching into the conveniently placed bin at his feet. Left shaking and shameful after this second round of sickness he couldn’t quite meet DeBryn’s eye as he murmured, “S-sorry...sorry. Thank you.”
“I went to Oxford too you know. Attended many a bacchanalian revel in my day. Gave me a certain knack for knowing when a chap was going to upchuck.” Morse winced at the word but DeBryn was unphased, nudging the bin aside, handed him a small towel to wipe his mouth. Then he gently pulled his hands one by one into his own and used a damp cloth to clean away the offending stains.
Peering at the floor rather than his hands he answered, “I’m not some drunken undergraduate, you know.”
“I do know”, DeBryn returned earnestly. “At this point I rather wish that you were. I could have brewed you some coffee and put you on the sofa to sleep it off. The whole evening would have played out as farce. Instead you and I are suffering through a bit of poorly written melodrama. Blood on your hands and your over-played apologetic refrain, it’s a bit much, you know.”
Strangely emotional Morse could do nothing but choke out, “Sorry” once again, feeling tears prick his eyes in frustration at his inability to do or say anything else. He blinked them away furiously and found that DeBryn’s hand was on his forehead now and he was standing over him all trace of sarcasm having left his face.
“You’re alright Morse, that’ll be the fever talking. Seems like it’s on the rise. Infection’ll do that.” Gently unbuttoning Morse’s shirt, he peered at the wound he had stitched up not but two days prior. Morse looked away but heard DeBryn clucking disapprovingly “You didn’t take care of this properly. I’ll pick you up some anti-biotics but you may be in for a rough few days. You’ll stay here.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m--”
“No, don’t apologize”, DeBryn snapped. “And don’t argue.” He sighed exasperated as he moved towards the sink. “I’m going to fix your stitches and then you need rest.”
DeBryn’s usual sarcastic cheer was abruptly gone. Morse realized slower than he should have that it was due to his concern for him. He should have been comforted by this but he only felt guilt. It was not something he had ever dealt with well: to be worried about, fussed over. As DeBryn cleaned the wound and repaired his stitches he allowed his eyes to roam the homey but fastidiously neat kitchen, hungry for anything to keep his mind off the sharp, dizzying pain. The room smelled vaguely of rosemary. He found himself surprisingly distracted by the memory of a similar situation.
He was home from Oxford the week following the letter he had received from Susan that had driven him into a cloud of depression so thick it had driven him home where he hadn’t emerged from his bed in three days. He had passively dealt with Gwen’s taunts and shouts from his doorway until she had finally given up. He remembered being woken from a haze by Joyce’s hand on his forehead and similarly concerned eyes. She’d said nearly the same thing.
“You’re alright, but you’ve a bit of a fever.” She smoothed the hair away from his eyes. “You’ll stay here.” It was a statement from Joyce too rather than a question. Even looking back through the years he didn’t know if she meant that he would wait out this particular bout of depression and illness at home, or if she somehow already could sense that the academic life was over for him. “You’ve had a rough few days. You need rest.” He hadn’t replied. Hadn’t grasped her hand or thanked her for her concern. Hadn’t tearfully told her she was the only reason he came home anymore. She had smiled, bent low to kiss him on the top of his hair, and bustled away to brew him some tea. As if he deserved any of that from Joyce. As if he weren’t lying there mourning an irreparable blot on her future as well as his. Not that she would have known it at the time.
After Debryn helped him into a tiny guest room at the bottom of the stairs, produced a somewhat musty quilt when his chills returned, and wished him a goodnight, being concerned enough to leave the door open so that he could hear should Morse need anything in the night, he felt himself slowly drift into a feverish sleep, mind singularly focused on Joycie.
Morse & Max Hurt/Comfort 3/?
The passenger door opened and DeBryn’s hand was on his shoulder. “Let’s get you inside.”
Getting inside was easier said than done. They took frequent breaks for Morse to regain his equilibrium. He was becoming unnecessarily familiar with the pattern of the stones making up the walkway. It was taking all his concentration to keep his footing.
“I’m not drunk.” This was important.
“Morse, we’ve been over this. I know. You’re not drunk”, he gave a half sigh as he fumbled with one arm around Morse’s waist and the other unlocking the unassuming townhouse door. Just after stumbling over the threshold he felt DeBryn’s coat falling from his shoulders. Stooping to pick it up he felt the all too familiar white hot pain in his side and curled involuntarily hands held protectively around his middle. There was a ringing in his ears and a darkening tint to his vision as DeBryn hastily steered him sharply to the left depositing him into a chair and taking a firm hand to the back of his head to push it gently between his knees.
“Slow, deep breaths”, he instructed.
He gulped air greedily trying to move as little as possible. He closed his eyes but the room still pitched and swayed. He needed a steady point to focus on but upon opening his eyes all he saw were his own blood stained hands. His stomach lurched and seconds later found himself retching into the conveniently placed bin at his feet. Left shaking and shameful after this second round of sickness he couldn’t quite meet DeBryn’s eye as he murmured, “S-sorry...sorry. Thank you.”
“I went to Oxford too you know. Attended many a bacchanalian revel in my day. Gave me a certain knack for knowing when a chap was going to upchuck.” Morse winced at the word but DeBryn was unphased, nudging the bin aside, handed him a small towel to wipe his mouth. Then he gently pulled his hands one by one into his own and used a damp cloth to clean away the offending stains.
Peering at the floor rather than his hands he answered, “I’m not some drunken undergraduate, you know.”
“I do know”, DeBryn returned earnestly. “At this point I rather wish that you were. I could have brewed you some coffee and put you on the sofa to sleep it off. The whole evening would have played out as farce. Instead you and I are suffering through a bit of poorly written melodrama. Blood on your hands and your over-played apologetic refrain, it’s a bit much, you know.”
Strangely emotional Morse could do nothing but choke out, “Sorry” once again, feeling tears prick his eyes in frustration at his inability to do or say anything else. He blinked them away furiously and found that DeBryn’s hand was on his forehead now and he was standing over him all trace of sarcasm having left his face.
“You’re alright Morse, that’ll be the fever talking. Seems like it’s on the rise. Infection’ll do that.” Gently unbuttoning Morse’s shirt, he peered at the wound he had stitched up not but two days prior. Morse looked away but heard DeBryn clucking disapprovingly “You didn’t take care of this properly. I’ll pick you up some anti-biotics but you may be in for a rough few days. You’ll stay here.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’m--”
“No, don’t apologize”, DeBryn snapped. “And don’t argue.” He sighed exasperated as he moved towards the sink. “I’m going to fix your stitches and then you need rest.”
DeBryn’s usual sarcastic cheer was abruptly gone. Morse realized slower than he should have that it was due to his concern for him. He should have been comforted by this but he only felt guilt. It was not something he had ever dealt with well: to be worried about, fussed over. As DeBryn cleaned the wound and repaired his stitches he allowed his eyes to roam the homey but fastidiously neat kitchen, hungry for anything to keep his mind off the sharp, dizzying pain. The room smelled vaguely of rosemary. He found himself surprisingly distracted by the memory of a similar situation.
He was home from Oxford the week following the letter he had received from Susan that had driven him into a cloud of depression so thick it had driven him home where he hadn’t emerged from his bed in three days. He had passively dealt with Gwen’s taunts and shouts from his doorway until she had finally given up. He remembered being woken from a haze by Joyce’s hand on his forehead and similarly concerned eyes. She’d said nearly the same thing.
“You’re alright, but you’ve a bit of a fever.” She smoothed the hair away from his eyes. “You’ll stay here.” It was a statement from Joyce too rather than a question. Even looking back through the years he didn’t know if she meant that he would wait out this particular bout of depression and illness at home, or if she somehow already could sense that the academic life was over for him. “You’ve had a rough few days. You need rest.” He hadn’t replied. Hadn’t grasped her hand or thanked her for her concern. Hadn’t tearfully told her she was the only reason he came home anymore. She had smiled, bent low to kiss him on the top of his hair, and bustled away to brew him some tea. As if he deserved any of that from Joyce. As if he weren’t lying there mourning an irreparable blot on her future as well as his. Not that she would have known it at the time.
After Debryn helped him into a tiny guest room at the bottom of the stairs, produced a somewhat musty quilt when his chills returned, and wished him a goodnight, being concerned enough to leave the door open so that he could hear should Morse need anything in the night, he felt himself slowly drift into a feverish sleep, mind singularly focused on Joycie.