Morgan's smile is more of a wince this time. He puts the beer back down, clasps his hands around it. They're dirty, bruised. Calluses and burns bandaged. He's not sure it's fair that he can still be injured, but there's little about life or death that's fair.

He knows what sort of things Mac might be thinking he is. Knows the type of things that wear the faces, the bodies of the dead. Has killed a lot of them, over the years.

...He's caught off guard by how personal talking about death is. How his throat closes up when he opens his mouth.

"Steak sandwich, Mac?" He says instead. "You still turning those out?"

Then, before he can take it back, because why else is he here? (For company, for warmth, to not be alone.) "It was in Winter. I died in Winter."

The whole story? No. A start? Yes.