Chapter Text
Time moved oddly in the hospital.
Waiting felt like hours. Conversations felt like seconds. It was like he couldn’t quite hear, like he was being held underwater by some strange invisible force. People – doctors, he assumed – kept asking him questions he couldn’t answer, about Morse’s family and his medical history and even his sodding first name. The man in the dark glasses didn’t say much to him, only giving him directions when needed. Peter found himself following the stranger everywhere, throughout the hospital.
First, the canteen, where Peter was pushed to eat as much as he could of what felt like a vat of shepherds’ pie, then chug a frankly ridiculous jug of water. His stomach ached and sloshed as he was moved along to a changing room. He was handed a washbag and instructed to clip his nails and brush his teeth, and take a quick shower with express instructions to scrub away any fragrance from his neck and any pomade from his hair. Usually, he would have revelled in so much free hot water, but the steam hurt his throat, and made his pulse race. Before he could dress, a sombre faced nurse dressed the wound on his back quickly and without comment, not even when he whimpered from the sting of iodine and the shame of what she’d have seen there. She then thrust strange white clothing into his hands.
“Where’s my clobber?” Peter asked, his voice still hoarse.
“Being washed and pressed, to be returned to you upon your leaving.” She spoke quickly, as if every second were precious. “Dress.”
“Can I see Morse soon?” He asked, but she was already gone. He clutched the bundle tightly, and followed orders. The clothes were light and soft, loose fitting like pyjamas. The shoes they brought were like stepping on clouds. When he emerged, the impatient nurse thrust one more thing into his hands.
“The doctor tells me you’re a smoker. Not for the next 48 hours you’re not. Put these on your arm near a vein – they should control the craving.” Peter barely had time to fumble in the packet and pull out what looked like a strange plaster before he was being frogmarched forward again.
In any other circumstance, Peter would have complained a thousand times over, but this was Morse. His Sentinel. That meant something, didn’t it? He itched to be with Morse, to hear his heartbeat, to touch his hair. His Sentinel was locked away, hurting, and he needed to make this right.
Corridors rushed by, but Peter’s detective instinct noticed the commonly reoccurring signs, even if no-one seemed interested in telling him what was happening. The words ‘sentinel ward’ were practically burned onto his eyes as they reached there, stopped only by what seemed to be a nasty argument between two doctors.
“This is absurd!” A golden-haired man in a white coat roared, at what Peter realised was the man in the dark glasses from before. “Taking an unverified Guide to an emerging Sentinel on the off chance that they might be a pair?! Do you hear yourself?!”
“What choice do we have, Isaac? Much more isolation and he’ll burn himself out – he’s already showing symptoms!”
“It’s hard to tell what he’s showing while he’s hiding under tables!”
“Gentlemen, lower your voices.” The nurse growled, her face twisted in a scowl. “Remember your training.”
“I take it this is the supposed Guide then?” The blond man sneered. “Have they explained the risk of what you’re about to do, or do I have to be the bearer of bad news?”
“For God’s sake, Isaac, you’ll frighten him!”
“But it is a risk.” He snapped, then took one deep breath, pinching between his eyes. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told, or what you think you need to do, but you need to know this. Sentinel Morse is currently extremely fragile; his emergence is by far the most traumatic I’ve witnessed in my entire career.” Peter forced himself to keep calm; of course Morse was in a state – he was Morse. He was perpetually in a state. “Any sudden shocks a Sentinel receives during their emergence – especially one as fraught as this – could prove fatal. Whether that be unexpected sounds, overstimulation of lights, or the ingestion of chemicals.” There was a long pause, and Peter got the impression that the man in dark glasses was praying his companion would stop talking. “To put it into perspective, Sergeant, if it was raining, he’d be dead.”
Peter’s heart jolted.
“What?!” The man in dark glasses winced as Peter’s yelp. “He wasn’t even hurt – just… bruised!”
“In the explosion, yes, but I’m not talking about that. He’s a latent Sentinel fighting his emergence! Do you understand how serious this is?” The blond man huffed, then realised there was no point getting angry at Peter’s ignorance. It was an expression Peter had seen far too many times – from teachers, colleagues, even Morse once or twice. “Sentinels can be latent for a long time, but when they emerge, it’s instantaneous. However, for whatever reason, Sentinel Morse is fighting his emergence.” This time, the man in dark glasses really did try to intervene, tugging at the blond man’s cuff. It did nothing – if anything, he spoke louder. “If he continues to do so, he will simply burn out before emerging, with fatal results. Alternatively, if he emerges too suddenly, having gotten himself in this state, he will overwhelm his senses, which can also be fatal, or lead to permanent sight and hearing loss, among other issues.”
“Isaac!” The man in dark glasses growled, and finally his companion fell quiet, looking pale and grim. “He is… correct, as pessimistic as his tone is. But, the presence of a Guide is medicinal in this case. You should bring him enough calm and comfort to emerge safely.”
“If you are, in fact, his Guide.” Isaac raised an eyebrow, running his eyes down the length of Peter’s white-clad body. “What evidence do we have that they are even a pair? Without testing-“
“I heard his voice. In my head – after the explosion.” Peter blurted out, desperate to have something to contribute. “It wasn’t much, and it wasn’t loud, but it was him.” He glanced at the man in dark glasses, who was smiling slightly. “Is that anything?”
“It could be the sign of a fledgling bond – a very good sign.” When he spoke, there was a note of relief in his voice. “If there’s a bond, we have to try. He’ll take no other.”
“Fine!” Isaac folded his arms and scowled. “But don’t blame me when –“
“We won’t.” Peter couldn’t see beyond the dark glasses, but he reckoned the other man’s eyes were shining. “We’re not wrong, Isaac.”
Then the man in the dark glasses reached up and pressed a kiss to Isaac’s mouth.
Peter’s whole world stopped.
He’d seen men kissing before – fathers kissing their sons goodnight, a sloppy kiss pressed to a cheek after a cup final, even a drunken snog or two. He’d had a few of those, and a few more sober kisses, but none that he’d admit to. It was illegal, wasn’t it? He was a copper, he’d seen enough people dragged in for it – not that he’d ever arrested anyone himself for it. Hell of a hypocrite he’d be for that.
The men pulled away from each other, and Peter spied the silver bracelets flashing on their wrists.
They’re a pair, he realised. Sentinel and Guide. Working together, here.
He’d never craved something so deeply all his life.
“If I can help Morse, I want to. I’ll do anything – just… tell me what I need to do.”
“A bit of coaxing first of all.” The man in the dark glasses was all professionalism, even as the slight blush was fading from his cheeks. “Since arriving, Sentinel Morse has let no-one near him, so we have no idea as to his condition. Ideally, he should on the bed resting, but that may take some time. He also needs to change into clothing like yours – it’s specially designed to lessen irritation.” Peter glanced down at his bizarrely comfortable shoes and nodded. “His senses are incredibly heightened at the moment, so any sound or texture will aggravate him greatly.”
“And… and after that?” Peter turned his eyes to the doorway. How long until he would see the other side of it?
“Depends entirely on where you two are with your bonding. That must be established safely, but I will admit the sooner we can get him through some basic hormonal testing, the better. And then there’s food and medication to consider, but we wouldn’t even attempt it when he’s in this state.” The man in the dark glasses paused, and put his hand this time on Peter’s arm, by his shoulder. “But please don’t rush – the bond is your priority.”
“Doc?” Peter hated how weak and reedy his voice sounded. “You said a sudden shock would be fatal.” He thought of Morse, writhing around on the floor, face twisted in pain. “Has… has anyone survived a situation like this?”
“In all previous cases, all Sentinels have died within an hour of an unsuccessful emergence crisis.” Isaac replied, but he sounded neither angry nor smug. All that was left was tiredness.
“Sentinel Morse has exceeded that thrice over. We simply do not know what will happen.” The man in the dark glasses retorted. “But with all my heart, I wish you the best.”
“Thank you.”
In the last moment, the nurse stepped away from her station and pressed a cup of something cold into his hands.
“What are-“
“Ice chips.” She stated. “The cold may be overstimulating, but so are the symptoms of his almost inevitable dehydration.” She gave him a stern nod. “Good luck.”
Peter took another deep breath, and ice chips in hand, crept into the room. The door closed behind him without so much as a woosh, and Peter had the horrid feeling of being sealed in. How many times was he going to get trapped somewhere awful today?
Except, nowhere could be that awful if it had Morse in it.
For a heartbeat, Peter thought Morse had escaped. The large but sterile room had no signs of life in it – no pictures on the walls, no flowers or windows or cards. There was a large bed in the middle of the room, with crisp white sheets, but it hadn’t been touched. The lights were dimmed, and through the gloom, Peter saw a clump of fabric in one corner.
And then it twitched.
“Morse?” He called, and then winced as the clump gave a low moan. Fuck, he’d only been in the room ten seconds and he’d already fucked up. He made his steps as quiet as he could as he crept to the corner.
“Morse – it’s me.” He whispered, and there was another flinch but smaller this time. “It’s… it’s me. It’s Peter.”
“Peter?” Morse’s head lifted, just slightly. “Why are you –“ Morse started to turn, but cried out and huddled back into his corner.
“Easy, easy now.” Peter padded forward, marvelling at how the strange white shoes muffled his footsteps. “How are you feeling?”
“Hurts.” Morse whined. Now he was closer, Peter could see Morse was holding his head as if frightened it would burst. “It’s all –“
“Too much?” Morse didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to; Peter knew by the rasping of his breath what a state he was in. “It’s okay, just breathe. We’re going to get you right. Can I touch you?” After a minute or so, Morse gave a tiny nod. Jakes put a feather-light hand onto his back. Despite everything, he was still wearing that bloody grey blazer from the ransom drop. That felt like a lifetime ago. “How’s that feel?”
“Good.” Morse, stubborn sod that he was, fought to turn around, shielding his eyes as he did so. What little of Morse’s face that was still visible was ashy. His voice trembled as he spoke. “Peter, what’s – what’s happening?”
“I think you know.” Peter let his hand rest on the nape of Morse’s neck, stroking the delicate curls he found there. Morse had always had such pretty hair, and Peter had always wondered what it felt like to run his fingers through it.
In his fantasy, he’d never pictured Morse scowling quite so fiercely at him as he did so.
“But I can’t be – I’m not – I won’t let myself be –“ There was something wild in Morse’s eyes as his hands dropped from his face, something startled and fierce. It reminded Peter of when he’d once seen a fox, half mangled by a trap but fighting to be free.
“That’s the problem, Morse.” He could see the strain Morse’s anger was causing him, how it tensed his jaw and brought sweat to his forehead. “You can’t change this.” Peter skimmed a thumb over Morse’s cheek as he spoke. “If you don’t accept being a Sentinel, it’ll kill you.”
“Then I’ll die.” Morse growled. “I’d rather die that be-“
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Who are you to say-“ Morse started to snap, but Peter cut him off.
“Because you’d have done it by now.” Morse’s eyes widened. “Your body would have given up. But you’re still fighting to live, Morse, because… because you want to live.”
There was a long silence. Morse swallowed hard, and his eyes had taken on the saddest sheen Peter had ever seen in them.
“I don’t want to be a Sentinel.” Morse reached out and clung to Peter’s strange white shirt. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be alone, darlin’.” Peter pulled him closer, feeling the faint heat of Morse against him. Still, even with their physical closeness, something about Morse felt distant, locked away. It was like there was an invisible wall between them, pushing them apart. “You’ll have your Guide, and the bond’ll mean you’ll never be alone again.”
“But who knows when I’ll find them? Some Sentinels spend their whole lives looking.” Morse gave a half-manic laugh. “I can’t even hold down a flatmate, Peter.”
He didn’t know.
Oh God, he really didn’t know.
“Morse, look at me.” Peter put his hands on either side of Morse’s face, cupping his cheeks gently. He’d only ever held lovers like this, seconds before he kissed them.
They said it made them feel treasured, safe, wanted. All the feelings he wanted Morse to feel.
“It’s you?” The two words, so tiny and soft, slipped from Morse’s lips. Peter nodded. Words were hard to find in that moment, but he did his best.
“No-one knows for certain until you emerge but… I’m the only person you’ve let near you since the explosion.” For the first time since entering the room, Peter could see Morse thinking, the cogs of his mind starting to turn. He must have been remembering what had been tucked away for the last day or so. “And – and even if it’s not me – I’ll stick by ya.” Peter felt a flash of revulsion even as he spoke at the idea of someone else taking away his Morse. But a promise was a promise. “Until you find them.”
Morse’s hands were suddenly on his wrists, squeezing hard.
“I can’t make you do that. It’s not fair.”
“Morse, stop being so bloody noble.” If this had been a normal day, in their normal lives, Peter knew he’d be losing his temper by now, flinging a pen at Morse across the room to stop him being so stubborn. But that acidity had fled from him, bathed in the soft glow of just being with Morse. “I feel just as drawn to you, as you do to me. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Peter had seen romantic films; he knew this was the moment where the two leads pressed themselves into a passionate kiss. Instead, Morse made a loud choking sound.
“I want to cry but –“ He mumbled, swiping at his eyes.
“You’re dehydrated.” Peter spoke soothingly. “The nurse gave me some ice-chips – wait here.”
It felt like a wrench to let Morse go, but quickly they were back together, and Peter cupped the tiny chit of ice in his fingers. He pressed them gently to Morse’s lips, and held him as he tensed.
“A few at a time – nice and slow.” He could feel Morse’s lips moving against his hand. “Feel good?” Morse nodded, and got more eager. Peter passed him the cup, and Morse tilted it back into his mouth.
“Easy – don’t choke.” Peter eased the cup away after Morse took a few gulps of the ice. The cold didn't seem to be bothering him, thank God. “We’ll see how those settle, and make our way up to normal water. After that, we might be able to risk some broth.”
He’d meant to make Morse smile, but Peter watched the tension creep back into his shoulders. Peter ran a gentle hand over them. God, Morse was narrow. All angles, that one.
“Christ, you must think I’m pathetic.”
“Why would I think that?” Peter frowned at him. Morse tossed his head, like an irritated horse, refusing to meet Peter’s eye.
“Because I – because this – can’t even bloody move, let alone feed myself or –“ Peter put his hand back on Morse’s nape, and marvelled at how it soothed him. Had it always been a sensitive place for Morse, or was it just between them.
“I’m not angry at you. Not for this, not ever.” Peter kept his voice firm, but panicked when Morse looked chastened. Still, maybe he needed a bit of a scold, if he was going to persist in wallowing. “But… Morse, it’s not going to get better unless you let yourself emerge.”
“I can’t.” Morse bit back.
“I know you’re frightened but-“
“No, I don’t mean that – at least, not right now.” Peter had expected some resistance, but not Morse’s defeated tone. He still looked just over Peter’s shoulder, cheeks pinkening. “I don’t know how.”
“Ain’t it just…” Peter gave his hands a non-specific wave. “Instinct?”
“Supposed to be but…” Peter moved his hand slightly, and with the tip of one finger, could feel the thrumming of Morse’s pulse. God, a heartbeat that quick couldn’t be doing him much good. “I think I’ve forced it down so much that I can’t bring it back up again.”
“I don’t know anything about this. Didn’t even bloody know I was part of it until this morning.”
“You didn’t know you were a Guide?” Morse cocked his head to one side, looking like himself for the first time since Peter walked into the room.
“We’re not having that conversation right now.” Morse threatened to droop, so Peter kept talking. “Look, we’re detectives. We can figure this out. What normally happens, when Sentinels emerge?”
“I only know two ways. During childhood - which clearly isn’t going to happen – and…”
“And?” Peter prompted. Morse sighed.
“When they meet their Guide for the first time.”
“Oh.” Peter paused, trying to remember the first time he and Morse met. It couldn’t have been that memorable, if he was struggling. Certainly not life-changing. “Shit.”
“Shit indeed.” Morse really did droop this time, putting his head in his hands. Peter could see the tips of his fingers, chewed red and sore.
“How-how does… how do you know you’ve met your Guide?” He ventured, but Morse didn’t lift his head.
“You feel it. Instantly, and unconsciously.” He whispered, voice soft and low. “My dad always said it was like his Guide reached out and –“
Morse stopped, and Peter realised with a jolt that his shoulders were shaking. Was he crying? Fuck, Peter hadn’t expected crying. He was shit with criers, ask anyone. He scrambled around his brain, looking for an alternative.
“Maybe that’s our problem. You were holding back, and I was too – ‘cept I didn’t know I was. Maybe we just need to reach out.”
“Peter, the connection – the bond between Sentinel and Guide – it’s between our souls.” Morse wailed. This was more than just their familiar irritance, like when Peter pronounced something wrong, or didn’t know who wrote Jane Eyre. Cliché as it sounded, it was soul-deep. “There can’t be secrets between us, we can’t hold back. We have to see each other, exactly as we are, with everything we’ve been through.” Morse sounded wrecked and raw. “I can’t – how can I make someone tolerate that? Tolerate me?”
“Well, I’m no picnic either.” Peter pressed Morse’s forehead against his own, and together they breathed. Just breathed, nothing more, nothing less. Peter hadn’t realised how good it would feel to just be with someone. “But I… I’ve already trusted you with the darkest part of myself. I think… I think I can cope with yours too.”
Peter felt, rather than saw, Morse nod.
“Come on then.” He said, in a gruffer voice than he’d intended but one that managed to keep his own sob at bay. “I’m not having the most intimate moment of our lives sat on the fucking floor.”
Morse tried to push himself up, but his legs refused to co-operate. After the third attempt, Morse dropped back to the floor, his face twisted in equal parts pain and shame.
“Peter, I can’t –“ His voice faded away as he gestured hopelessly to the bed. Peter dropped to his knees, and wrapped himself around Morse.
“I’ve got ya.”
Carrying Morse to the bed was worryingly easy, even if setting him down did jar Peter’s back a bit. Once lying, Morse stretched out slightly, and groaned at the easing in his no doubt stiff limbs. He was shivering too, despite his jacket. Peter tucked himself around Morse, pressing his chest flush against Morse’s back. Their clasped hands met in front of Morse’s heart. His hammering heart.
“Just breathe, Morse. You’re safe with me. I got ya.” Peter repeated. There was the slightest hitch in Morse’s breathing. And then –
‘My name’s Endeavour.’