Chapter Two

The case had been going on for about a week now, and the police at Cowley CID were getting no closer to a solution, even with Morse working tirelessly day and night to find a solution.

Thursday's mind should've been on the case, but instead, he was focused on his bagman. Morse seemed to have slightly less energy as the days wore on. Oh, yes, he still threw himself into his work with the same nervous energy, following up leads and questioning suspects without losing an eyelash, but at other times, he was…slacking. Thursday had caught him staring into space more than once, and if that wasn't bad enough, he was no longer responsive when he came to drive Thursday into work in the mornings. Sure, he smiled politely, but he did little else. He didn't even acknowledge Joan's flirting or Sam's jibing. He just robotically went through the motions, or so it seemed.

Morse still drank at the watering hole, but Thursday had begun to notice that the lad's cheekbones and jawline were starting to stand out, his eyes sunken with bruise-like shadows underneath. And God, was he starting to get thin. Morse had been slender before, but his clothes were starting to hang off him badly, so that he looked mostly clothes. The coat helped, of course, but still. Whenever he took it off, Thursday was reminded of how positively unhealthy Morse looked.

It seemed Morse's body was starting to give up on him, too. Early into the second week of the case, nervous energy from Morse began to grind steadily to a halt. It started with the pen tapping.

Morse had a nervous habit of tapping his pen against his desk, typewriter, or other available surfaces (even his head, which was amusing at times) when he was thinking hard. That habit stopped, and though several DCs and DSs were happy about that (the tapping was annoying), Thursday was worried.

It was only a day or so before Morse stopped prancing around energetically at crime scenes and at witness interviews. He looked tired, overworked, with no color to his cheeks. He'd lost enough weight that his jacket now hung badly off his shoulders, his trousers sagging. Thursday felt he needed to remedy the situation immediately before Morse starved to death. There was only one thing he could think of.

Without explanation, Thursday told Morse to drive him home. It was getting on four in the evening, about the time Win started dinner, which was Thursday's master plan. As it happened, he didn't need to explain. Morse nodded and drove him obediently home and parked outside the house.

"I can wait here," he said, voice quiet as he stared straight ahead.

"Win will be upset if you stay out here," Thursday placated. "Come on, lad."

Morse huffed, but obediently roused himself and followed Thursday to the door. The DI opened the door and sniffed hopefully. Count on his stable Win to have dinner cooking! It made his stomach growl, even though he'd eaten a proper lunch. Morse wouldn't be able to resist.

As Thursday removed his coat, he watched the young detective. Morse stood just inside the doorway, staring down at his shoes, hands deep in his pockets. He couldn't get a proper look at the lad like that, but he could see Morse swallow visibly.

Quite suddenly, Morse's stomach complained audibly.

DI Thursday hid a smile of triumph as Morse flushed pink all the way to his ears. It was the most color he'd shown in days, and a light seemed to flick on in his bright blue eyes.

"Sorry, Sir," he said quickly, sounding as humiliated as he looked. He pulled his coat around him, as if trying to disappear. More likely, it was to keep further complaints from his obviously empty stomach muffled in fabric, but he wasn't running. Thursday couldn't decide if it was because he was reluctant to or because he didn't have the strength.

The DI realized he must've let the silence go too long. Morse picked his head up and blinked quizzically at Thursday. "What did we even come here for? Sir." The title was an afterthought, and Thursday wasn't imagining the boy swaying on his feet.

"Go and sit before you pass out, lad," Thursday said gently, wondering if he was crossing a line. But if he was, Morse was too tired to complain. He tottered into the sitting room and sat down on the couch there. Within a few minutes, he was sleeping deeply.

Poor lad, thought Thursday, just as his wife pattered in.

"Home early, Fred?" She asked, kissing his cheek. "I thought I heard Morse."

"He's asleep in the sitting room, pet," Thursday replied, kissing her back.

"Oh dear," Win gasped, and Thursday could tell she was remembering the last time the lad had passed out on their couch. "Is he hurt?"

"Not as badly as that," Thursday reassured her. "Just worn out, and hungry as anything. I heard his stomach before."

"Poor boy," Win cooed, and Thursday couldn't hide his smile. "He'll have to stay for supper. You'll make sure he does?"

"It's not any extra bother for you, is it?" He asked. "The lad will never forgive me if he's underfoot here."

"Muming is never a bother for me," Win replied. "You just make sure he has a good sleep. I'll see to it that he gets a good meal in him."

"You're a wonder, Win," Thursday replied, kissing her cheek.

It was an hour or so before Morse woke again. Thursday was smoking his pipe, reading the paper, and the smells of dinner were really quite permeating now.

As Morse groaned into life, Thursday set down his paper. "Welcome back, Morse," he teased. "Feeling any better?"

"Yes. Sorry, Sir," Morse stood up quickly. "I'll go back to the station, and-" But his movements were too quick for running on so little fuel, and he wobbled badly before regaining his balance. Thursday had moved to catch him instinctively, and now stood towering over the boy, using his height and weight to their full advantage.

"You'll do no such thing," he said firmly. "You're staying."

More looked horrified. "Sir, I would never intrude."

"You are no more trouble to look after than Sam or Joan," Thursday replied. "In fact, in some ways, you're more trouble. Hey," This was to stop Morse was trying to sneak around him. "I heard your stomach before. When's the last time you had anything to eat?"

Morse seemed to think a minute, but instead, he wobbled again and sat down, seemingly giving up. Thursday wasn't about to press the question, and suddenly, Morse looked much older than he was. He ran his face through his hands with a sigh, but didn't answer. "Since last week," he said at last. "Before the case. At least. I don't remember."

Thursday clucked his tongue, glad Win hadn't been the one asking. She might mum the boy too much and scare him off. "You're certainly staying for dinner in that case," he said. Morse made no further arguments, though he seemed to look better and better as the dinner continued to cook.

Supper consisted of only the three of them, as Sam and Joan were both out tonight. A hearty broth was the start, followed by thick, overstuffed shepherd's pie. Morse ate politely, wishing he was alone. His stomach ached with hunger, and all of his muscles screamed for proper rest. The past week seemed like a daze, and Morse was plagued with a headache whenever he tried to focus. He could remember now that by Wednesday of last week, his stomach had begun to complain of hunger. He'd ignored it, of course, thinking the case would be over by week's end. It wasn't, and starving all this time hadn't been good for his job performance, regardless of the hours he put in.

Even eating slowly, he still finished before his boss and his wife. He was still very hungry, but he felt well enough to venture home and rest. He could look at the case with a fresh mind tomorrow.

He was about to excuse himself when he found another slice of the meat pie on his plate. Hunger overcame him, and he devoured it in seconds, blushing afterwards. In that way, he finished off most of the pie, and went home with a full stomach instead of an empty one.

The very next day, the case was solved, thanks to Morse. He felt a little shy around Thursday, but the DI was silent on what had happened yesterday, thankfully.

Morse brought Thursday a round, figuring he owed him more than two future rounds for that favor.