Back again, and with a new chapter! Kind of long again, but more and more original scenes are filtering in. Whilst I'm still on the road of reciting scenes from the show (with the dialogue and all), I am finding my feet with these characters and their patterns of dialect and choice of words and whatnot. So hopefully those original scenes feel authentic.

I was thinking to myself a lot lately about where I wanted to go with this story - and the idea of Joan being a woman independent of Morse felt super important. She's a girl in the sixties! She wants more than a boyfriend - all women do. So, with that in mind, I decided to go for a more feminist outlook from here on in. Hopefully that gels well with everyone!

There's also been a tense change, since series 5 was this year and the pluperfect tense was proving a gripe to stay within the bounds of. Oh, and as well! If you haven't seen Series 5, this is a PSA to tell you: please don't read ahead! Spoilers will turn up, intentionally or otherwise. So be wary, folks.

As for song recs, I ended up listening to a lot of modern stuff. Modern, head-banging stuff. So please take a good look at Charlie Puth - Attention, Slow it Down - and Jess Glynne - literally all of 'I Cry When I Laugh' - so have fun times with them in the playlist. Thanks to anyone who's following! Hopefully you're liking my choices.

As always, folks, please red and review! It's well appreciated.


Joan perhaps thinks that this might be what she's been looking for the entire time.

Looking up at the flat, the morning sunshine casting it in a hue of gold, the bright red door like something she'd have been pernickety about when she was younger, it feels like home already. It's the glow of independence, she knows; the sense that this is just her. It's all she's ever wanted – to have something that she can claim for herself without ever having to consider what a man might have to say about it. She's no hardcore feminist (not yet, anyway – a few friends are on a mission to change it, and she's not entirely fighting them) but it sends her mind into a frenzy.

Freedom.

She likes the taste of it.

It's a quaint thing, she thinks, shoving her hands into the pockets of her well-worn turquoise coat – a reminder of many a mistake she's made in a short life so far. She's seen him in it, of course – turning up unannounced like a bad penny after a foul mishap. But for now, Morse is nothing but a face drifting in her memory.

This is about her. About how she's trying to move on from her own mistakes.

The ache never truly leaves her stomach – out of fear, out of guilt, she doesn't know. She's not sad about the miscarriage, per say. More just about how it ended. Having a baby had never been the plan, but she'd have taken it. Even if had meant her father would never look her in the eye again. Even if her mum would glance at her like she expected her to collapse and treat her like a girl yet despite the quite literal pram in the hallway. It's a reminder that things could be different. She'd be Joan Thursday – just not under her terms.

She's done with romance.

She wants herself for now.

A car drives by in the idle April sunshine as she thinks, glancing at the pavement, still drying after a night of rain, and the wide, Victorian windows of what she hopes will be her new home. The railing is spiked like arrow heads – sharp to touch, she thinks. The door is oblong, paint fresh and vivid and new – what she wants in life now. It's neat, in a row, with no sense that it's a street home to homewreckers. At least, that's what she's been told.

From experience, she's learned neither her gut nor hearsay can ever be truly right all the time.

One more glance allows her to breathe out, a smile gracing her lips, feet comfortable in well-loved heels and the satchel handbag – dark brown leather and buckle straps from another era - a comfortable weight in her hand.

She turns away, listening to the purring engines in the distance, and glancing at the cloud-dusted sky, the spring breathing to life in this quaint and quiet part of Oxford.

Home, she thinks.

It's a nice change.

She's a different person, she knows. She has been since leaving Leamington.

She's wanted far more than she ever has done, and it could be to do with the fact that Morse is out of the picture.

Ever since the hospital – whenever she cares to remember when that was – she's given up waiting out for him. Because, stupid and lovable and oblivious and genius as he is, he has told her once and that's enough. She won't push it. She never will. Whatever was straining between them when she was still the girl who greeted him on the doorstep, it's gone. She cannot spend her entire life pining after a man that cannot – and will not – ever admit to ever having loved her.

No matter the emotion. No matter the tears and no matter the past.

She's done with pining for him.

She'll just love him in private, where he'll never know, and where it will never hurt anyone.

She feels that best.

This thought strikes her as she makes her way around the flat, small but decent for the rent she's going to have to pay. It's bare skinned for now – waiting for some splash of personality on the walls – but she likes it. It's a fresh canvas away from her childhood bedroom and familiar dinner table. She can be young – the way she never could be when she lived under her parents' roof.

Under her Dad's roof.

She thinks the practicalities of having her own place will also help with that sense of uselessness. It will be running a home with two girls – a sort of balm after too much male companionship – and it's nice. Cool. Easy going. It's all fine.

She finally feels happy.

The first things, of course, come down to how she plans on making this place her own. New paint – a bright yellow, she thinks, because it's the colour of the sun. Brightness. And furniture, despite its small size.

She loves it, she knows. Everything about the whole experience is definitive and planned out.

She needs that after a while.

April lies and bathes in the sun, leaving her to walk to her new job every morning without a concern for rain, in lighter clothes with the busy people of her native city going about their own business like her, but without sparing politeness – the smiles are wide and the trees bloom and fall into arches of waterfalls of bright green leaves, all bowing to the sunshine and basking in it. It's one of those busy mornings that makes her feel important – like a proper individual for a change. Not clutching her mum's hand or chasing after her brother on the trip to the shops. It's just her and the sun and her smart black shoes, her hair freshly washed and make-up amounting to a swish of eyeliner.

Sharp and fresh-faced and content.

That's how she's always wanted it.

Until, of course, he goes and ruins it all.

Hard won independence never lasts long, apparently, not when her dad's a copper. Her trip to the chemist felt wrong this morning, like she should've put it off, but she'd chocked it up to not having eaten anything this morning.

But through the glass of the front door, he's there, at the counter, and she sighs internally, cursing the world for once with language she doesn't regret using. It earns her a sharp look from an elderly couple standing outside beside her, waiting for a bus or something, but she doesn't worry about it. Suddenly the whole shop feels like it's watching her. It's an old fashioned style chemist, with high sweeping ceilings and plenty of stands that could hide her 5"2 figure without cause for concern, if she chooses to go in and slip by him somehow – as always, engaged in work - but she somehow feels like that's just asking to be seen.

May as well face the music.

Opening the door, the tingle of the bell makes her curse again, because really, she'd told herself she was beyond this fussing over him.

But it doesn't help. Not in the slightest.

"Hello, stranger,"

His accompanying look, with lipstick in hand, is enough to make her curse again.

Fuck, she thinks.

He looks just as beautiful as she remembers.

He rapidly tries to explain exactly why he might be looking at lipstick, but frankly, she doesn't care.

Joan was near sure she'd gotten over this. It's like when she was at school – pine after a boy long enough and you get tired of it. It's like being whacked over the head with a bat – wise up! her mind shouts at her, and she's all the more happy to comply. But the way he's looking at her – like she's a person in a coma and has just told him what he's thinking – is a little too unnerving. As if her presence is a memory of things best left unsaid.

Probably true, she thinks. She hates that it most likely is the case.

Whatever the case, he looks different to her. A shade brighter in all components than she remembers from a good few months ago.

His hair has brightened with the sun, now a sandy blonde that reminds her of the beach – a mile away from the well-worn cobblestones of Oxford. His freckles are brighter, too, making his face seem sharper and more adult than he has ever looked before. Like the last blanket of youth has fallen from his shoulders and she can't ever expect to see the boyish Constable again.

Of course.

Detective Sergeant.

He's leagues away from her now, not just miles.

She also thinks he looks like he's been turned into the statue she always thought he resembled; he's no longer David poised in eternal pondering. He is David, cold and resolute and removed from human experience, but merely a symbol of order and beauty in amongst chaos.

Morse is no longer a man she thinks she knows.

"Miss Thursday," he says by way of introduction, as he pockets the lipstick he's paid for, clearly something for work that she wilfully chooses not to ask about. She's heard enough about his work to last her a sodding lifetime.

"Morse," she replies, and her tone is terse, most likely because she can't stomach the burgeoning butterflies that are dancing in her stomach, fruitlessly bringing her infatuation back to the forefront of her mind, during a conversation she promised herself she'd never have again. Maybe it had been a stupid resolution – to decide she'd avoid him for the rest of her life, just to give her mind and heart some well-sought after peace, but it also was a stupid decision, because he practically gets drawn to her side by way of magnetic attraction or something, and not in the good way. The two of them seem to be stuck within permanent reach of each other, always managing to have the knack to bump into the other.

It's annoying and stupid as hell, because his bashful manner and stupidly pretty face are the last things she needs right now. Or ever.

"How – how are you?" he asks, as they take the main pavement, the sun hitting the planes of his face with a shy glow, making his cheekbones more prominent and his nose sharper. It's casting him in shadow and it makes him even more swoon-worthy.

Christ, get it together, Joan.

She's gained wit about things over the years, and admitting that he's a more beautiful face than most is not a hard thing, but it reminds her that her infatuation still lingers, even though she's way past having a school-girl crush on him. She's past trying to impress him or make him notice her – she's trying to talk to him, like an equal and an individual, but he refuses to see her as anything other than a 20-something girl who hasn't had sex before.

It makes her want to punch him in his teeth, and she thinks he'd probably accept it, just to avoid annoying her further.

But at the same time – he's a grown man. Young, but getting on. 35 years old, at least. There's at least a gap of 10 years between them, if not a little less, and she realizes that perhaps that makes this whole conversation a whole lot weirder. They're two people entranced with the former versions of themselves, unable to see the realities in front of them. Morse is in love with the girl on the doorstop; she's in love with the Constable.

It makes no sense, and it's making less by the day.

"I'm not too bad, yeah. Certainly glad to be on my feet again," she glances at him, a little frustrated by the pained look he sends her way, tucking his slender hands into his pockets, overcoat fitting his slim shoulders a little better. His suit is dark – the one he wore when he came to her apartment way back when she was living a tip of a life, but a life nonetheless – and a nicely striped tie, the colour scheme matching his natural hues. She thinks if anyone has fit into Oxford more, it's him. He's the living embodiment of the place. Natural and old-fashioned and kind and just a little stuck in his ways.

"How long where you in for?"

"A couple of weeks – maybe two. I'm not sure,"

One week and 4 days. The damage not already done by her miscarriage had been minimum, but the force of the fall had left her head in a queasy way. She'd been told headaches would accompany the vaginal bleeding, so she'd been having a grand time of it. Heavier periods than ever before had never been one of the top things she'd ever wanted to have, and it had taken three weeks for it to finally return to normal.

Even now, the headaches would sometimes pop in for an afternoon chat when she was trying to get on with things.

But Morse didn't need to know any of that.

"Oh," he replies, and she shrugs, turning to look around her as she huffs out breath in annoyance. Such riveting conversation is to be expected, of course. It's never been anything else.

Her suffering seems to have been picked up by a woman in her late fifties, who smiles empathetically towards her.

At least someone gets it.

She doesn't dislike Morse. But she dislikes that they're still running around in the same circles after four years of acquaintance. Four years. She practically got down on her knees, day in, day out, pleading with God for the penny to drop.

And then it did, and it was too late, and nothing could be done.

And yet, here they are – the same circles, over and over again.

It's frustrating.

She wants Morse. More than anything. But she also has a life, and Joan can't risk wasting her time, still trying to get him to understand, when she's growing up just as much as him.

"You visited me," His expression freezes, lips parted to try and jump to the defence, but she coolly interrupts him.

"Calm down, I don't mind. I just – I remember you being there."

He smiles briefly, pulling at his earlobe. Habits never die with him.

With a lot of things, actually.

"Thank you." She tells him, and it makes him smile a little more, blinking in the bright sunlight, as they turn into the next street and find themselves surrounded by vibrantly leaved trees, splaying into life around them as they dip and curve around the gardens they've been planted in.

"And what about you? I haven't seen you around," Jealous or grateful for that, Joan doesn't know. She's decided to let him go, and for the most part, that's what happened. The thrill of seeing him is something she'll never get over, because that school-girl part of her is still there, despite how much she's grown, but now it's partnered with frustration and lack of patience for these things anymore. Time and age has made her – young as she still is – less patient with him. She's not prepared to wait around for him. Anytime he feels ready to say something to her, she'll be there. But otherwise, he can absolutely do the best thing and fuck off.

Time has also made her crotchety, but she thinks that's probably a good thing. She's done dealing with other people's shit.

"I've been busy," he replies, taciturn as ever. Just like he painted himself back on one of their early walks back to her house, when he'd only just known her.

"You always are," She mutters, but can't help but smile at his nonchalant shrug. He really does lament having nothing else to say to her. She can see it in his eyes.

It makes her soften towards him.

"Can't help it," he says back, and it feels like a verbal spar that's long overdue. The awkwardness between them lingers on, but there's a flame there, somewhere. It's making it spit and fizz between them, even if they're both trying to ignore it.

The walk continues, and Joan thinks that perhaps this is how it might always end up. Walking like a couple but never being one sounds like a sore excuse just to spend time together as friends, but it's all she needs to consider now. Romance can't – won't – be a part of her life. Not now, anyway.

"So are you back or… are you just visiting?"

Joan's look to him is incredulous, and she thinks he can tell.

"Dad didn't say?"

He shakes his head, not really looking at her.

"I'm back. Couple of weeks now. Surprised you didn't notice,"

"I wouldn't have known,"

"Busy?" she says again, and though it's framed as a question, she knows rightly well it isn't one.

He sighs, smiling a little at the insinuation. It's an excuse on his side.

"Not, but – not home," her afterthought sounds clunky, even to her mind, and the brush of his arm alongside hers as they walk reminds her that she needs to keep her emotions in check.

It's just the thrill of it. It'll pass.

She's too determined about it now to start going back on her word. Especially to herself.

"They must be pleased, all the same, though. Your parents," he dutifully does not include himself – a mistake he already made when she was waiting for the first train out to Leamington. Morse also seems to be done with being emotional over things.

Good. That's going to help, Joan thinks.

She can't help but cringe slightly at how sharp she's being, even internally.

"Think so. Mum, definitely," He nods in agreement.

"I'm sure they both are,"

Ah. There it is. That overarching tone of 'you've-been-missed-by-everyone-don't-be-so-ridiculous' but she's willing to ignore that too.

"It's not the same," she says to him, turning to face each other with a certain amount of trepidation as they are forced to look at each other – to see what the other's become whilst their concerns lay elsewhere. He's taller than she remembers – but that could just be time making her forget what it felt like to have him by her side a lot more often. Six months and she's been without him, and been fine. It feels weird – unoriginal, even – to stand here and pretend like she still knows him. She doesn't. He's changed, with or without her around to notice, and they've become different people, with different priorities. They were never each other's. Only when they stood in the same room, anyway, but where's the change there? Everybody knows that love makes you blind to everyone and everything else.

"No, no – I imagine not,"

Even as she looks away, Morse's eyes follow her, wind ruffling his hair a little. If she had an excuse, she'd leave now, but she can't help but feel like this conversation has missed on something important. It's all too casual, all of it – and it's –

It's making her wish she'd never seen him at all.

"Mr Booth – my neighbour, in Leamington – he said he called you,"

Is that it? Is that really what she meant to say to him?

"Yes," he looks to the ground.

"A fall, the hospital said?" He looks to her again, eyes and tone questioning everything about that. He knows. He knew from the offset. Probably knew before it happened.

She nods, quickly and neatly.

"I slipped,"

His face breaks into the smallest of smiles – a confirmation, then, that he knows she's not even telling him half the truth, but she doesn't care. It's for sake of saving face, and nothing more.

The conversation swiftly moves on.

"So, your Sergeant's! I meant to ask last time, but I just -"

"Oh, yes – it came through. In the end," a wry smile makes her beam at him, because here is a Morse content to tell her his work has its own shit to deal with. She likes that things end up wrong everywhere. Makes her own troubles seem less unbearable.

"Congratulations." She smiles and laughs, like old times. It seems funny to consider, but old her would have given anything to walk this path with him.

Maybe that's why it happens.

"Detective Sergeant Morse."

He smirks.

"Hell of an opening line, huh?"

He sighs, a style of laughter very acute to his way of doing things, and she just snorts again, brushing away a stray curl from her face.

"Things change,"

"Yes," it's a lamentable response, and a truthful one too. He hates it – she can hear it in his reply, how he loathes that things are different. Not just with Oxford, or with the times, but between them too. Between him and the Thursdays. Between people and places and society and life and death. He's such a pessimist, and enough of one to admit that he is one, too.

They reach the end of the path, and she knows this is it. How long until she sees him again? Probably too long to bother even trying to count it, but it breaks her, just a little bit.

Distance changes nothing.

Even if she moves to another country, and makes herself into someone she's proud of – with a career, and a future, and a name that's said with reverence and awe, she'll still feel about him like she has done for years.

And she'll hate him, too, for never allowing her to be let free.

"Yes, well – this way,"

He looks sad at the inevitable departure. But she wastes no time in stepping past him, content to leave it as a pleasant, goodbye, see you later –

"Are you alright?"

She glances back, watching his face morph into one of tentative curiosity. This is not in reference to her new job, or where she's living. This is deeper than that. Far more personal – personal enough in that it exists between the two of them, and solely so.

"I mean – really, alright."

She bites her lip, glancing back out at the day in front of her.

No. In some ways. Yes. In others. It depends what he means.

Is she alright after having been pushed down the stairs and having a miscarriage and bleeding out everywhere for 3 weeks?

Is she alright after her Dad came in and destroyed any chance she might have had of maybe realizing for herself that Ray was an arsehole and needed a good kicking, and she could have done it herself?

Is she alright – after all the times he's let her think he was interested, only to keep stepping back the minute it gets too real for him?

Let her count the ways – she's got all morning.

"Something happens,"

She's going to let that marinate for him, so he gets her meaning. His broken look makes her weep for him, but she also has a job to do, and that means making it clear.

"You have to look a bad thing in the eye,"

He looks at her, a little perplexed and perhaps a little in awe of her. And then he smiles, and she knows he's got it. He gets it, and he gets her.

"I'll see you around."

His expression is whimsical and light-hearted and boyish, as he shrugs, lazy with hiding the infatuation in his gaze.

"It's a small town,"

She turns round at the last moment, looking at him with that smirk that she knows makes him feel caught out.

"Well, at least I know where you buy your lipstick now,"

His laughter makes her heart sing a little, but she shoves it down, tucking her hair behind her ear as she walks her way down the main street.

She can't fall back in love with him.

Not yet.

And probably not ever.

The flat comes to life once she starts painting.

Yellow it is, and the walls start to shine with independence and feminine freedom the minute she dons her overalls and makes a point of dancing to the radio as she takes the professional approach and does it herself.

Nancy and Kate are both brilliant – one, as hectic and weird as Alice from her adventures in Wonderland, wanting everything done yesterday and with a penchant for cleaning things left, right and centre with even the tiniest bits of dirt, but she's house proud and refuses to live in a tip. That's a good thing. The other, as problematic as a flower – in other words, chilled out and only concerned with immediate problems, with a love of cooking and an easy acceptance of mistakes.

They're all doing rooms separately – but the music is loud enough to be enjoyed and quiet enough not to disturb, and it keeps the momentum as the place is drawn into their youthful lives.

Then the furniture – bare essentials and some help with choice through Win's expert eye, and it makes for an entertaining ride as these flatmates become people that are interesting to her in things that involve not a word to do with the other sex. They're young women, they're feminists, they're into parties and studying and drinking coffee at ridiculous times, and eating without a care, and dancing in their underwear, and picking fights over petty things and giving less than a shit about their weight and teaching the others how to do proper winged eyeliner. It's a miracle that female friendship is a real thing, because Joan thinks she wouldn't survive otherwise.

It's the Friday night that they're all sitting on the sofa, watching the evening light come in through the blinds as the television chatters in the background, down low but with some programme on that none of the three of them recognize. It's a common occurrence.

"Maybe we should do a flat-warming at some point," Nancy states, feasting on what looks like a bowl of almonds, but Joan's not about to judge. Nancy is all black curls and long limbs, with her pyjamas checkered and breathable. She's one for comfortable clothes – fashion is just an accessory in itself, in her not-so-matter-of-fact opinion. Joan's inclined to agree, despite how she loves dressing up. She also has a wicked sense of humour, and it shows on many occasions, mostly inconvenient.

"A what now?" Kate looks at her, incredulity and also perhaps a little annoyance passing on her face. She's small and curvy, with a big heart, a big laugh and every type of book piled on her room's floor in staggering, wobbly piles. She keeps saying she's going to put up shelves, but the other two already know it's one of those distant dreams that just serve as background info when she looks at her bedroom. It's never going to happen.

"A flat warming," Nancy enunciates, passing out a handful of almonds.

"Haven't we warmed it up enough for your liking?" Kate gripes, her intolerance for any kind of heat always made clear by the ungodly amount of times she keeps leaving windows open. There's only so much that 'fresh air' can be let in before it can just be deemed as 'cold'.

"Not like that; have people over – family, friends,"

"You mean, men?"

Nancy shoves her, Joan bursting into laughter as Kate laughs along at Nancy's face.

"As if! Can't stand them half the time. No – to make it a proper welcome to the place,"

They all glance around at their new paint job. Yellow in most places, a deep, wine red in the stairwell, and all their furniture – from three different households – all assembled in a mish-mash of personality and taste and state. Barely anything is new – just the paint.

It makes it feel old and loved despite being new to their eyes.

"It does look good, though – doesn't it?" Joan's question makes them all mellow, a smile blooming on each face. Kate's freckles dance in the evening light; Nancy's skin glows and turns a dark bronze; Joan thinks perhaps her hair looks like it needs a good comb, but nevertheless. They're all natural here – and it feels nice to know they've made something of the place all by themselves.

"Yeah," Nancy admits, and they fall into a silence.

Perhaps this flat-sharing thing isn't going to be so scary after all.

Just different.

But since when was there anything wrong with that?

Joan might love her father, but he's also had a notorious reputation for being a right pain, especially when she least wants to see him.

Despite the car park incident being months ago, it still rings in her head that he likes to try and fix every problem, even when it's not his, not in any sense.

She's never suffered fools – except Morse, and even that's debateable. But her father is a fool in the worse kind of way, and he's made Morse the same: the kind of fool who doesn't even realize he's being one.

The walk home feels heavy, with the April rain showers making the ground underfoot slippery and uneven, the cobbles in the pavement glistening with the street lights, and the cars strolling along on the road set the scene for a discussion Joan has dreaded, perhaps even more than her one with Morse.

Her Dad is a lone figure in the night light, standing with his hat on and coat draped over his broad shoulders, stout and proud and too much like herself for her to stomach. Any conversation between them always felt familiar and solid, because they were so similar and in sync that it all felt normal. Now, she doesn't know – her stubbornness has grown with her, but he's not been able to outgrow his tunnel vision when it comes to her; in his eyes, and in the eyes of everyone else, apparently, she's sweet little Joan, not capable Joan, or independent Joan, or even just Joan. She's everyone's little girl, and it's hateful. She hates it.

She sighs as he comes into focus, her heels on the pavement the only sound as he turns to look at her – perhaps this will blow over quicker than she thought. Just more bombastically.

There was always so much to look forward to with this family.

"Your mum said you were back,"

His voice is tense, but loving. Maybe a little restrained. His expression certainly seems to be the latter.

"Did she?" Joan snaps, and instantly regrets it. Now is not the time for a petty argument.

"Alright, are you?" Her Dad continues, shouldering the comment with barely a blink of his eye. He's as she always sees him – stoical, and most definitely immovable, in both virtues and opinions.

"I'm fine," she says to him, terse and a little put out, because there's hot chocolate inside and it's a world away from all her responsibilities – and all the conversations – and it's maybe an avoidance tactic, but she doesn't care. She can't face the past with other people – she's done that on her own terms, and that's all she wants so far.

"You didn't need to come out, you know."

Her father doesn't reply. Joan sighs again, staring at the toes of her boots. They're flecked with water from the pavement, and the glow of the orange streetlamp illuminates the small droplets, like pinpricks of gold in the leather. It's beautiful, and also a distraction.

"New flat," he points his head in the direction, doing a once over of the door.

"That's right," She glares at him. "Just me and two girlfriends. No men, if that's what you're worried about," She spits the word back at him, because it's an indication that that is his main concern, and she knows it, and won't allow him to have the upper hand here. She's had enough of that.

Fred rolls his eyes to heaven, ready to sigh and apologize like a certain Detective Sergeant, and it glaringly reminds her how much he's made Morse into himself. She wonders whether it's an accident, intentional, or an accident that's become a habit.

"I just wanted to see how you were,"

"Checking up on me?" The bite in her words is evident now, and she has no plans to disguise it.

"No -"

"I can let you have my flatmates' names and dates of birth, so you can run them past records, if that'll keep you happy,"

"I just want things to be right,"

"Right?" Joan hisses, and she realizes that what she has with her father is toast. Gone. Burnt. Up in smoke. Because there it is, right in front of her – same old, same old. The same thing over and over again. No allowance for something new, something different.

This idea keeps haunting her, and it's driving her nuts.

"How they were. We always got on," his tone is fond and so are his eyes, but she can't stomach it right now.

"You can't fix it! I've seen what happens when you try to fix things!" It's a slap to the face, because his expression changes; from consoling to defensive. Here's Fred Thursday again, from father to copper quicker than she can say 'smart'.

"There are bad things in the world, Joanie. Bad things. Bad people. Wickedness! I've only ever tried to keep you safe from that."

"Nobody asked you to! I certainly didn't – and neither did Sam!"

"You, your mum, Sam – if I've come up short -"

"It's 1968!" She snaps, glaring up at him with her temper roiling in her abdomen, heartbeat quick and frantic as she feels that same temper that resides in her Dad rise to the challenge.

"I'm not your little girl anymore. Not anyone's little anything. Stop treating me like a child – people have to make their own mistakes!"

The silence breeds like flies, churning in her stomach as she watches the night for a moment – a stray cat streaking across the road, the dappled spotlights under the street lamps – and her Dad, standing like a King defeated, but by his own sword.

"Say hello to mum for me,"

It's a dismissal.

And she walks past him, unlocking the door and closing it, she feels like she will regret leaving the conversation in such an awkward twist, as misshapen and hurtful as it is. It's a reminder, she feels, of how far the two of them have come. Her father can't accept that she's grown up – and maybe, in a terrible way, that means she can't accept his opinion anymore. Certainly not as gospel, like she used to.

"Joan?" Nancy's voice drifts down to her when she finally makes it through the door to their flat, situated in the topmost part of the building. She's nursing a mug of steaming coffee and looks more contented with it cupped in her hands than perhaps Joan has ever seen her before.

"Yeah, it's me," She lies her back flat against the inside of the door, not even removing her coat.

"What took you so long?" Nancy's voice sounds vaguely worried, and a rush of affection for her newest flatmate fills Joan to the core.

"My Dad stopped by," she replies, lifting herself from the door and depositing her coat on the table, stripping off her boots with a satisfied groan. Her feet have been killing her, no less because she's been on them all day.

"Did he say something to you? Oh, wait – is this the Dad that we aren't supposed to talk about?" Nancy raises an eyebrow, taking a sip. She snaps back instantly, cursing at the drink – it's still too hot.

"Do I have another father?"

"Don't pretend it wasn't a possibility,"

Joan shrugs. Touché.

"Doesn't matter. He's gone now,"

"You make it sound like a relief,"

Joan looks at her, studying her face. Nancy was a single parent child, so nuclear families are not her forte. But it shouldn't matter – her family situation far outweighs Joan's in terms of normality.

"Maybe because it is," Joan realizes her tone is far sharper than she wishes, and she sighs, rubbing her eyes. One of Nancy's hands is up in surrender, eyes widened as she heads for the sitting room – or rather, the adjacent bit of wall with a sofa against it.

"Whatever. I'll see you in the morning,"

"It's the morning within an hour,"

Nancy's head pops back around the wall.

"Please don't be that person," her accompanying grin assuages Joan's bad feeling, as she puts the kettle on.

Maybe if the men in her life let her breathe for a change, she might have an idea what to do; how to fix things. For now, she's good as she is, but things still lie amiss outside the walls she's currently standing in, and it makes for a solid lump in her throat.

In the morning, she tells herself. She'll sort it out.

Eventually.


This was actually going to be longer, but we were hitting 7K words and I needed to stop *laughs*

This entire fic is turning out way longer than I ever envisioned, but it couldn't happen with all my lovely readers! You guys make my day! Thank you so much for all the support - it means a lot.