Work Text:
Wednesday, December 6th, 1967
"You're a good detective, but a poor policeman."
Detective Constable Endeavour Morse had never truly understood that blunt assessment from DI Fred Thursday, until he finally did.
Had he not been a poor policeman....he would have taken the initiative to confront the man he suspected of following him the past two weeks.
But, he hadn't.
Had he not been a poor policeman...he would not have brushed aside each encounter as a mere coincidence.
But, he had.
He was a good detective, which is how he had noticed the man in the olive green jacket and cap in the first place, head tilted down, face unrecognizable. Always at the periphery, hunched to conceal his 6'3" frame.
Had he seen the face, he would have recognized it without hesitation, for the danger it presented.
But, he hadn't.
Had he not been a poor policeman, he would not have ever turned his back on the olive drab-clad stranger, and relaxed his defenses.
But, he had.
He was a good detective, but then Thursday had accused him of "pulling theories out of your arse just to remind us all how clever you are!" in a rare outburst of exasperation. That had stung more than the other barbs levelled at him in private by his suddenly prickly superior in the past week alone, the admonishment having been rather loud and very public. There had been a fair amount of concealed snickering at his expense after that.
Had he not been a poor policeman, he would have taken Thursday's words in stride, not to heart, and recognized them as the emotional lashing out of a father frustrated with the sudden upheaval of his beloved daughter from his daily existence. But, Morse had been keen to understand that Fred held him partially responsible for Joan's departure, and sought to remove himself from the unwarranted accusation, if only for a moment.
But, while he had distanced himself, in the form of a hasty retreat resulting in a slammed door before his puzzled superior's very eyes, he hadn't been able to shake the cruel words meant for him ever since that dreadful morning, when he proved unable to speak aloud his feelings for Joan, and perhaps keep her from leaving.
It was actively tearing his and Fred's work relationship, and respectful friendship, apart.
Consequently, he might have noticed the olive-garbed man that approached from behind as he walked aimlessly in frustration, cloth soaked in sickly-sweet chloroform at the ready, having waited patiently inside the small, yellow car that had appeared two weeks prior for the very moment Morse would pass by, alone. The yellow car that had been remarked upon, yet had been unremarkable, all the same.
But, he hadn't.
Had he simply been more than a 'poor' policeman, Endeavour might not have found himself struggling to escape that same chloroform-soaked rag from where it had been clamped against his mouth with a bruising, unrelenting force, his vision swiftly dimming as he cried out behind the hand in shock.
But, he hadn't.
"Nothing personal," the man had said, moments before Morse sagged limply into his arms.
He was no more than dead weight by the time he'd been hauled into the boot of the small, yellow car, and locked within, limbs tangled without grace.
There were no witnesses.
* * * * *
Monday, December 4th, 1967
Fred Thursday had always considered himself a patient man.
Until he wasn't.
Admittedly, the once amicable relationship between he and his bagman had been suffering as of late, ever since his Joan had absconded from home only hours after the incident at the bank now weeks past. She had fled, right under their noses, to where only God knew, leaving her family to worry ceaselessly over her fate. While a resourceful girl, no, woman, Fred had become concerned over the emotional toll it was taking on his Win.
It wasn't right.
And Morse hadn't done a single thing to stop their child from leaving.
For that very reason did Fred Thursday find himself losing his prided patience with Morse for the third time in a week's spanse. For all the lad's brilliance, he could also be ridiculously obtuse, and at times maddeningly so.
Monday had been one such day.
Morse had slid silently in contemplation behind the wheel of the Jag, with Thursday as passenger. "Where to next, sir?" he had questioned, pulling the vehicle onto the roadway.
Thursday glanced at his watch. "Well, it's luncheon, isn't it?"
Glancing over hesitantly, Morse gave a slight nod of affirmation. "It is, that," he responded quietly. "But, sir, I thought we were planning on enquring of Miss Kennelworth this afternoon--"
Fred sighed loudly. "Of course we are, that's what I said, isn't it? This after noon. That's after luncheon," he replied testily. He looked side-long at his bagman, eyebrows furrowed. "Not all of us can exist on whiskey, beer, and speculation, Morse."
He had watched as his bagman's head pivoted about quite rapidly in shock. "Sir?!"
Before Thursday could respond that a 'sandwich never killed a man,' Fred noted the car slowly turning right from a side road prematurely into their pathway. Morse's normally keen eyes weren't yet focused on the road, still levelled at Thursday in surprise.
"Good Christ, Endeavour, brake, man, BRAKE!"
Fred braced himself against the dash as Morse slammed his foot down upon the car brake, narrowly missing hitting the slow-moving car now in front of them. Both men pitched forward, but the elderly driver in the vehicle before them was none the wiser concerning the near-accident, clipping along steadily without a glance backward.
Thursday threw his door open in anger, gaze glowering at his subordinate. "Park it. I'm driving," he declared, stepping out around the Jag as Morse's cheeks grew red with the dismissal.
His bagman huffed incredulously, relinquishing his position as Fred rounded the car. Once he deposited himself in the passenger seat, Morse waited until the car was in motion before speaking again. "I'm sorry," he admitted quietly, eyes scanning the scenery as he turned towards the window, "but...why would you say that to me?"
Without another moment's thought on the matter, Thursday responded, "Because, it's true." If he had caught his bagman's wounded expression, he certainly didn't remark upon it.
They had continued on to the pub in absolute silence.
* * * * *
Some hours after the abduction, December, 1967
Endeavour awakens on at least three separate occasions.
The first time, the small, yellow car jolts to a stop, and then the boot opens, allowing a window of blinding light to filter through.
Before he can properly react, the sickly-sweet chloroformed cloth is replaced, and he quickly succumbs to the numbing haze.
The second time he awakens, he immediately feels a stinging prick in his upper left arm, and once more, he goes under like a ship's anchor, weighted and heavy beneath the rolling sea of consciousness.
But the third time, he is left alone, groggy and exhausted. It takes some time before he fully awakens. When he does, darkness permeates his surroundings.
Clear as mud, Thursday might say, then Morse remembers the last time he saw the Detective Inspector.
He regrets leaving, but he had to get away.
Mission, accomplished, he thinks ruefully.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he knocks his knuckles against something directly above him, and hisses at the scraping sensation. The dimensions of the space around him are small, he concludes, and feels his other hand brush against something cool, and metal.
It is a torchlight.
Morse fumbles with the torch, feeling for the switch before clicking it on with his thumb. His hands are shaking. A weak ray of light erupts from its lens, dust particles swimming within the acute confines of the beam's width.
Red, painted letters on wood are visible just inches away.
No one is
coming for you.
They already think
you are dead.
Morse simply stares wide-eyed, blinking in his confusion at the hastily painted note. The light from the beam flickers intermittently. He then takes a deep breath, suddenly aware of just how much dust, no, dirt, is present in the thickened air.
It's hard to draw a decent breath.
It's at that moment, as electric undercurrents of fear ripple across prickled skin, that Morse understands where he is.
He isn't in a confined crawlspace hidden in a basement, nor in a shed, or trapped in a root cellar.
He is lying in a coffin.
The young detective places a trembling hand over the words, feeling the grain of the wood with his fingertips as he traces the painted shapes. He then draws a shallow, shuddering breath, and stops cold. Heart racing, he begins to rake his fingernails across the words as if to erase them from existence, to scratch and claw his way out of his current predicament, breaths coming faster still.
A rising sob of panic breaks the drowning silence, and the torch slips numbly from his hand, light rolling and shifting below to highlight somewhere near his shoes. He pauses in his efforts, sucking in a loud, laboured breath, heart hammering furiously within his chest.
"Hullo?" he calls out hesitantly, voice tremulous. Morse tries again, louder, banging a fist against the wooden panel so hard he feels splinters sliding beneath the surface of his skin.
The echo is wrong, stunted in its growth. He is in too small of a space for his voice to carry.
No one is coming for you.
A small space, like the boot of the small, yellow car, only encased in impenetrable layers of dirt.
A frightened wail from deep within escapes his lips, and then Endeavour begins to scream in abject terror until the thread of his voice breaks, claws until his fingernails are jagged and broken.
"Nothing personal," the man had said.
* * * * *
Thursday, December 7th, 1967
When the clock struck 8am the next morning, signalling the beginning of the workday, and Morse was not present, Thursday wasn't entirely shocked. He knew his bagman would most likely still be upset from the day prior, and was more than likely exhibiting his defiant nature. As fifteen minutes bled into thirty, Fred was more than surprised he'd chosen to be this stroppy for so long.
Without realizing it, a full hour had soon passed.
Snatching up the telephone receiver, he rings Morse three, four, five times. There is no answer. He tells himself to focus on the closing statement of the report he is currently working on, then he'll try again.
An hour later, there is still no answer.
By the time Fred arrives at Morse's door, he's already considered five potential administrative punishments for his insubordination. He had focused on those instead of the worry clawing at his gut.
Pounding on the door is fruitless. He then retrieves the key Morse had give him last year, 'just in case.'
Half-expecting to find his bagman curled around an empty bottle (or two) of whiskey, he instead finds no one. There also isn't a freshly discarded pile of yesterday's clothes, and the mattress and pillow are stiff with cold. At the end of his visit, Thursday whole-heartedly believes Morse didn't make it home last night.
Anger dissipating, only to be replaced by gut-wrenching concern, the Guv'nor drives to each of the local pubs most frequented by his detective constable, and when those turn up empty of leads, he tries those less-frequented.
Endeavour Morse had become a ghost.
That night, as he sat next to his still-distraught wife on the sofa with a heavy sigh, Thursday had a moment of introspection brought about after that day's inquiries. "I...I think Morse has left again, and he's not coming back."
Win's gentle hand rested atop that of her husband. "Morse? What's happened, love?"
"He didn't come in today, and I've tried every pub in Oxford. No one has seen him." Fred swallowed hard, and ran a palm across his forehead. "I've been an absolute bastard to him, Win. I've been overly cruel to the lad since Joan left, and I know I've hurt him. And now, he's run off. Not likely to come back a second time, I'd think," he finished, sadly.
"Fred! Don't say such things!" Win exclaimed, outwardly displaying more emotion than she had in weeks. "Where do you suppose he'd go? Back to that little house down by Lake Silence, perhaps?"
Fred shook his head dejectedly. "I'm not so sure of that, Pet. He's smarter than to be found a second time. There, or anywhere, I'd reckon." He breathed deeply for a moment. "I keep thinking...maybe he went after Joan, to look for her, only nothing had been taken from his flat. I'm at a loss."
Win smiled sadly, gripping his hand with hers. "He'll turn up, love. You'll see."
* * * * *
Friday, December 8th, 1967
Morse wasn't at his desk the next morning, either.
Fred broke the news to Mr. Bright.
* * * * *
December, 1967
A deep chill had settled within Morse's bones where he lay below the damp earth. Though it was December, this cold had naught to do with the weather, but the acknowledgement of his situation. It seized his lungs and stole his breath away.
Then again, that could have been because his oxygen was running out, making it more difficult to breathe.
He tried his best not to calculate that equation.
After his panic attack had subsided, he had drifted off again for an indeterminate spanse of time, only to awaken to complete darkness once more, fingertips bloodied and sore. He had hurriedly switched the torchlight back on, but now the batteries are running low, and he wonders as the light flickers unsteadily what will be the last thing he'll ever see.
Not that there is much to currently choose from.
Morse's mind drifts to who could have orchestrated this, another case to work out in an effort to keep the terror at bay.
He eventually thinks back to the olive-drab jacket and cap he'd seen intermittently over the course of weeks.
It had been weeks since Joan left.
Weeks since he hadn't needed to walk on eggshells around his guv'nor.
Weeks that he'd not heard a kind or approving word from Thursday.
Weeks after he'd last made an arrest alongside his DI, a sixteen year old boy accused of violently raping his female classmate. There'd been no show of remorse, by either the boy or his father.
Thursday had clapped his bagman on the shoulder after he had puzzled out the victim's rapist, after he had placed the boy in cuffs and handed him off to a waiting constable, a gesture meant to inspire confidence of a job well done. Morse had remembered how the boy's father had looked on, his hands tightening into fists, and how he had averted his eyes from the seething man whose son was being led away by the police to a future behind iron bars. The tall, seething man wearing the olive coat and matching cap.
"Nothing personal," the man had said.
Endeavour realizes those words might be the last he'll ever hear, and he weeps until he drifts off again.
They already think you are dead.
* * * * *
Friday, December 8th, 1967
Mr. Bright had taken the news in stride, and pretends not to be affected by the revelation that Morse has probably left of his own accord.
Thursday knows better.
He tries his best to focus on the day's tasks, but only after he notifies the neighboring counties of Morse's disappearance.
It's around 9:30am when the call is patched through.
A farmer, in Oxfordshire, witnessed a strange yellow vehicle on his property late yesterday afternoon, burying some animal or another in the ground. He had meant to survey the damage after he'd finished, but his mare had gone into labor prematurely, and had only remembered that morning. He'd intended to press charges of trespassing, and consequently had gotten the vehicle's information through a pair of binoculars.
It was enough.
The small, yellow car was found almost immediately, and its owner still inside the public house where it was parked. Fred recognized him at once, he and Morse having arrested his son weeks prior for rape. Though intoxicated, the man wouldn't stop leering at Thursday throughout his arrest and subsequent interview.
"Runs in the family, I see," Fred begins, leaning over the table with his palms flat. "Now, just what were you burying on Mr. Carcross's property?"
The man leaned forward, too, and grinned.
"What? Nah. Who."
Thursday froze. "Who? What do you mean, who?"
"Oh," the suspect responded, "I think you already know."
Within moments, every available constable was given a shovel and an address.
He rode passenger to Dr. DeBryn, trusting that the pathologist wouldn't later judge him for his outward display of suddenly overwhelming grief.
Fred hoped it would be his only such one.
* * * * *
December, 1967
The air inside the coffin is thin, and Morse drifts in and out of consciousness. Each time he awakens, he wonders when the last time will finally be. He suspects his oxygen will run out before starvation claims him, but already he can feel his stomach clenching in ravenous hunger, and his throat parched beyond measure.
No one is coming for you.
Nothing personal.
He loses consciousness again.
* * * * *
Friday, December 8th, 1967
Thursday watches stoically as the more able-bodied around him strike quickly at the fresh mound of dirt with their shovels, custodian hats flung into a pile as they had inhibited their frantic work pace. Time is crucial.
DeBryn has taken him aside, addressing him with his usual bluntness, though there is a marked sadness to his words. "When they find the coffin, Fred...it's best I go in, first. In case--" Max begins, only to be interrupted with a growl from the Detective Inspector.
"Don't," Thursday warns. "Don't you dare to finish that sentence."
The words don't need to be spoken aloud for Thursday to understand why DeBryn is even there in the first place.
Max only responds by raising his eyebrows and stepping back a few paces, for Thursday is a man balancing precariously on the rim of a canyon of utter despair.
The pathologist will not be the one that pushes him over.
The men continue to dig furiously with their shovels.
Then, with a resounding thunk, solid wood is struck, and the tableau becomes even more frantic than before.
Max rushes ahead as Thursday begins to move forward of his own accord.
* * * * *
Endeavour lay completely still, lips parted as he gasps for air, but there is no more to be had.
He doesn't hear the shovels scrape against the wood above him.
* * * * *
Fred stands on the edge of the rectangular hole that's not a grave because that would imply the occupant was deceased. He watches numbly as a crowbar attacks the edges of the oblong wooden panel, two men's might needed to pry the lid off.
Eventually, it opens.
Max is the first to jump down into the hole, nearly four feet below, but that doesn't mean Thursday doesn't look. What he sees of Morse is alarming, though all he sees is his face, pale and still.
His lips are tinged blue. Thursday swallows a sob.
DeBryn is running his fingers along the underside of Morse's thin wrist as he searches for a pulse. That's when Fred notices the bloodied fingertips, the broken fingernails, and his vision swims.
The lad had tried to claw his way out.
Below, DeBryn has ripped open his satchel, and at once reaches in for a stethoscope, placing the cold, metal disc atop Morse's motionless chest. Listening intently, he stills for what seems like a year and a day, before pivoting his head in sudden alarm to meet Thursday's gaze directly.
"He's alive!"
The intrepid DI releases a shuddering exhalation, rubbing a hand across his eyes before composing himself once more, barking orders to those around him. Lowering himself to the ground to assist DeBryn, he maintains his reasoning has nothing to do with his suddenly unsteady legs as he swings them over the lip of the earthen hole, and jumps down.
Together, they place sturdy hands behind Morse's shoulders in the confined space and lift him gently, Thursday supporting his bagman's head as it lolls backwards, when he finally has the room to do so. Passing him up to those awaiting above, Fred scrambles out of the hole, along with DeBryn as Morse is laid out atop the earth. A medical team arrives, strapping an oxygen mask securely to his face.
That's when Morse awakens.
No sooner is the mask placed over his mouth and nose do his eyes fly open, blown-wide and petrified, his hand reaching up to rip the mask away with a great, gulping gasp of air. Despite the hands attempting to calm him, Endeavour manages to sit upright and frantically propel himself several feet backwards in what Thursday can only describe as utter terror. Fred doesn't know how to help the lad, and his vision swims once more.
He is at a complete loss for words.
But, he thinks, isn't that what led to Morse running out to begin with, on the day of his abduction? A loss of kind words? So deep into the bitter pit of sorrow and blame he'd dug for himself, had Fred been, that he hadn't realized the emotional toll that his projected anger had taken on those he worked closest with, namely his erudite detective constable. He thinks back to all of the cruel remarks thrown at him over the course of the last few weeks, and Morse's lack of retaliation, and he realizes that his actions are no different than the young man's father's towards him the entirety of his childhood, and his step-mother, too. His silence was a learned response.
And in spite of his bagman's obvious lack of sleep, the bruised hollows visibly underlining his normally piercing gaze, he then made light of Morse's concerning and increasing dependence on alcohol right to his face.
That Thursday had considered himself a mentor was, in retrospect, shameful.
He hoped he could fix whatever had broken between them, provided Morse survived this latest misfortune.
And, if he didn't? Well, what was the point of remaining a copper if he couldn't protect those he cared for? But, he cast aside his introspection for the moment, the laboured gasps of his bagman snapping him back from the past. He hovered uselessly nearby as Morse held trembling arms out, shielding himself from the concerned medical personnel as his eyes darted amongst them wildly. It was then that Thursday heard the litany that Morse repeated, no louder than a raspy breath.
"I'm not dead...I'm not dead...I'm not dead!"
A constable came up behind Fred, addressing him in hurried tones. "Sir! You need to see this."
Stricken, Thursday glanced backwards to where the constable motioned, down into the pit. Having missed it before, his blood now coursed chilled through his veins.
Harrowing words, scrawled in scarlet atop pine.
No one is
coming for you.
They already think
you are dead.
"Jesus Christ," Thursday gasps in a strangled whisper. It becomes quite clear at that moment that Morse isn't losing his wits, but informing his rescuers that he, despite what they may have heard, is still alive.
Fred moves instantly, nearly bowling over a hapless medical technician as he surges forward towards the young detective, and kneels gently in the grass before him. "We never thought you dead, Endeavour," he says in a clear, albeit shaky tone, "only missing."
Eyeing him warily with his preternatural gaze, searching his guv'nor for the lie, Morse eventually releases a shuddering whimper of relief before he folds his arms over his head, and crumbles before Thursday's very eyes. His sobs are quiet, yet broken, stifling them in the crook of his arm as he is conscious of his audience, but Thursday is, too. Fred bids them to give them both a moment of solitude before another attempt can be made to transport Morse to hospital, and DeBryn assists by shepherding onlookers back for the time being, if only for the meanwhile. Neither miss the lingering looks cast by fellow officers, for they understood all too well it could have been any of them confined to an early grave, in lieu of the detective constable.
Many of the younger rank and file appear outwardly shaken. Thursday doesn't blame them one bit.
He clears his throat gently before addressing the emotionally shattered young man before him. "Morse...think you can look up at me? I want to see that you're alright, lad--" Fred is interrupted by a firm head shake, a singular blue eye peeking out from the crook of Morse's elbow. "Get me out of here," he pleads hoarsely, and though Thursday strains to hear him, the desperation in his voice rings clear. The Guv'nor nods in understanding, and glances over his shoulder at Dr. DeBryn before motioning him over.
DeBryn kneels down, as well, placing a hand on Morse's shoulder. "Do you think you can stand on your own, Morse?" At this does Morse look up hesitantly, avoiding all but their gazes as he places his arms down, and grasps two handfuls of cool, green, grass blades, simply connecting with the topmost surface layer as he collects himself. DeBryn catches Thursday eye with a meaningful look, both in that moment considering what Morse is contemplating: that he never thought he'd run his hands through the earth, the grasses, things touched by the light of the sun, ever again. It's enough to make their hearts plummet into their bellies at the thought of it all.
Several long moments pass before Morse nods minutely, but assuredly, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes before extending a hand out towards the pair. He is suddenly bone-weary beyond words, and it takes both DeBryn and Thursday to hoist him to his feet and angle him in the direction of the waiting ambulance. He hasn't the energy to fight, not this time.
Morse has all but slumped over onto Fred by the time they reach the open ambulance doors, a firm grasp around his shoulder all that keeps him upright. As he is ushered onto the stretcher, oxygen mask strapped on once again, Fred can't help but be concerned by Endeavour's thousand-yard stare as his bagman deflates, offering no resistance as he is ushered down onto the stretcher. Fred slides onto the bench seat in the back of the vehicle, helpless, as Morse shuts down completely, EMTs bustling around him as they take vitals and jab needles and tubes into his arm.
All the while, he stares blankly at the ceiling.
Fred wonders if they were too late, after all.
* * * * *
Friday, December 8th, 1967
It is evening, and Morse is resting, though how comfortably, no one can be certain.
Once he was allowed visitors, Fred sat for a few hours, before being relieved by Win while he went home to shower and have a quick kip. She knew to call if conditions improved.
Or worsened.
Now, he was back, sitting next to Morse not on a bench seat in the back of an ambulance, but in a plastic chair in hospital. Staff had agreed to allow the Thursdays to stay overnight, given the nature of what had happened.
The light has been left on indefinitely, so Thursday had brought some literature to keep occupied.
He would stay as long as he needed.
* * * * *
Endeavour awakens on at least three separate occasions.
The first time, he is groggy, barely lucid. A weathered hand not his own gently cards through his hair while imparting indecipherable words in a soft murmur, and he quickly drifts off to sleep.
The second time is alarmingly different from the first.
Morse startles awake with a strangled cry, eyes searching with a frantic need, though for what, is not made clear. A gentle hand, smaller, rests atop his cheek, brushing against it with the soft stroke of a thumb in a calming manner. He swallows a sob, and squeezes his eyes shut, willing his fright away. Eventually, he stills, breathing evening out as he slumbers safely once more.
The third time he awakens, it is Thursday who has nodded off. His guv'nor's chin rest atop his chest, hands holding a book open in a haphazard fashion. It would soon fall to the floor.
Endeavour has no idea what DI Thursday is doing there.
Before he can mull over the presence of his superior at his bedside, Thursday's book slips, clattering on the tile loudly enough to awaken him. He jolts upright, and Morse isn't entirely sure which of them is more surprised.
Thursday looks upon him with a sigh of relief. "Hello, Morse."
Endeavour blinks curiously. "Hullo, sir."
His guv'nor quirks his eyebrows in amusement, and an odd smile graces his features before it is gone again. "How are you feeling, then?"
"I'm..."
He doesn't know how he is.
"...here."
And not THERE.
The Guv'nor smiles sadly. "That you are, lad. Welcome back."
They both sit in silence for an extended amount of time, and though it is mutual, it is also strained. Finally, Thursday moves to break the tension in the suddenly too-small room.
"Look, Morse, there's something I need to say, about Joan--"
"I'm sorry," Morse blurts out, expression pained, "before you say anything else, I'm sorry. For letting go of Ms. Thursd--Joan. I..." He swallows around a sizeable lump in his throat before continuing, seemingly at a loss for words. But, he is not. "I had no right to keep her here, sir. No right to tell her what she should do with her life. No right to tell her how I feel about her," he shook his head sadly, "so, I didn't. And now, she's gone. Because of me. And I know you hate me for it." He pauses to run bandage-tipped fingers through russet curls, voice managing to drop even lower. "Everyone else knows it, too."
Fred sits stock-still at Morse's words, but his initial reactions of shock and disbelief segue into the realization that Morse had spoken naught but the truth, and Thursday was finally ready to admit to that.
"You're right," he replies, and Morse looks over warily, uncertain which part Thursday is confirming. "You're absolutely right, lad, I had blamed you, but not anymore. Joan is as headstrong as the rest of us Thursdays, and I can't imagine what any of us could have promised her to make her stay." Fred watches as Morse contemplates this, eyes shadowed where his head hangs down in thought.
A subtle shift of the plastic chair brings Fred's frame closer to Morse's bedside. "I've been unduly harsh towards you lad, an utter knob, and I've failed to take action when I saw others follow my lead. I know I've hurt you, and I'm sorry. Had I not said those things on Wednesday--"
"Stop," Endeavour commands, voice firm, but shaken. "I don't want--not yet. I can't --"
He pauses, swallowing with difficulty as the words lodge themselves deep down his throat. Thursday gives him time.
The young detective finishes with a shake of his head, eyes brimming with barely contained anxiety. "It's too soon...to talk about it--"
An eternity where not even music could reach...
Fred reaches over and places a calming hand on his forearm. "Then we won't. Not until you're ready, lad."
Only hours had passed.
"Alright," Morse agrees, flustered with relief. "Thank you. And I accept your apology, of course I do. I never wanted to disappoint you, is all." He raises his eyes to meet those of his guv'nor.
Fred smiles, shaking his head. "Not sure that's entirely possible, Morse." He studies his bagman a moment longer. "Are we good, then?"
Endeavour quirks his lips into a tired smile. "Yeah. Yeah, we're good." A slight yawn escapes his mouth, and he settles into the bed, eyes drifting closed.
Fred vows to make certain he doesn't wait until it's almost too late to clear the air again.
Almost too late, forever.
No sooner has Fred picked up his fallen book from the floor does Morse sleepily follow up with, "Was Mrs. Thursday here?"
"Yes, yes she was."
"Tell her thank you, then. For caring."
It's Fred who tears up this time, thinking of his Win.
"I will."
But Morse has already fallen back asleep.
Thursday will stay until the young man can wake up without fear or terror in his eyes.
He wouldn't fail him again.