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The lights are out in Morse's flat and it's not he who answers the door but a disgruntled neighbour, who shoves past Jakes with nary a word of greeting and vanishes into the chilly Oxford night. When Jakes realises the cause of the man's annoyance he's already halfway up the stairs. He hesitates for a moment as the unfamiliar and arrhythmic wail of a female voice assaults his ears. Opera. What does the man see in it that he listens to it so earnestly? Most folks, Jakes wagers, buy a few impressive-looking records of Mozart and Chopin to show off at dinner parties and play for a few minutes once Christmas draws near. His parents own a ghastly pre-war recording of Beethoven's Greatest and he's never been very fond of it. Neither have his parents. So why it is exactly that Morse finds solace in Wagner Jakes will never understand. It is thus that he doesn't feel terribly sorry for interrupting Morse's private Friday night soirée. He's quite obviously in, even if he doesn't reply to Jakes's impatient knocks right away.
'Morse,' he tries but he doesn't even know why he bothers. He's got better things to do than console a sulky constable, and it's none of his business anyway. The man's on furlough; didn't even sit his sergeant's. A death in he family, so Thursday has told him. Of course, then there are the rumours about Morse having been shot. It's been all the talk down at the station but Jakes knows better than to ask. The truth, he supposes, must be less than flashy. And anyway, Morse hasn't even been to the Radcliffe or it'd have hit the papers. Nothing serious then, Jakes tells himself as his knocking becomes more frantic.
When the door is finally opened, it takes his eyes a while to adjust to the darkness beyond. Music greets him first, followed by Morse's messy hair and pale face, serious and weary-looking in the dim light of the staircase. Jakes finds himself searching for traces of an explanation. What he's offered instead doesn't even amount to much of a hello. Morse steps back. The door opens a little bit wider, and Jakes draws a deep breath and enters. As the door closes behind him he's engulfed in twilight and music. He's been here before, of course, but never has he felt more out of place than he does now.
'Turn that off. I'm serious, Morse,' he demands as he fumbles for a cigarette. Morse obliges, but he takes his time. Jakes can hear him shuffling about once the opera singer's voice has abruptly faded into the atonal scratch of a needle. The corners of his mouth twitch in sympathy. He too owns a record player, and he imagines Morse values his little portable turntable about as much as he does – maybe even more so, what with the respectable collection of classical records displayed right next to it.
There's bumping into furniture and mild cursing, then a light is switched on by the bookshelf. Morse, in his crumpled and faded shirt; in his black trousers and bare feet, looks worse for wear. He limps toward the small table by the kitchenette but doesn't sit down. There are two bottles of scotch – one's empty, the other nearly so – next to some house keys and an old newspaper whose crossword hasn't been finished.
'You been drinking, then?' Jakes remarks dryly.
There's no reply as Morse leans stiffly against the table.
'Brought you this,' Jakes offers instead and, cigarette dangling from his lips, produces an inconspicuous-looking paper bag from the inside of his pea coat, which he then leaves to hang over the back of a chair. He's been to an off-license; as a bit of an after-thought, admittedly, but it's the thought that counts. Now he unceremoniously crumples the bag in his free hand and leaves the bottle of scotch on the table.
He frowns when Morse reaches towards it.
'Easy there, mate.'
Morse hesitates.
'What; it's a gift, isn't it?' he objects offhandedly.
'Doesn't mean you should drink it straight from the bottle,' Jakes replies, a hint of amusement returning to his voice. There's a certain gratification to seeing Morse like this – dishevelled, defeated and at an obvious loss for words – but that doesn't mean he wants to bear witness to a man reduced to drink and self-ruin. He thinks about putting the bottle away, for safe-keeping, but Morse seems to reconsider and finally turns his back on it.
'Why don't you … why don't you give me one of those then?'
He points towards what's guaranteed to be in one of Jakes's pockets.
'You smoke?' Jakes asks through a drag from his own cigarette.
'I do now.'
Fair enough, he supposes, and Jakes has never been particularly stingy. It comes with the territory; being both a policeman and an older brother to several siblings.
He goes for his pack of Player's and watches as Morse lights up. To his surprise, the other man knows how to handle himself, but the sudden change of heart makes Jakes wonder. He's never seen Morse smoke; not even at the pub.
'What's it with you?' he asks as Morse tentatively makes his way back to stand beside the kitchen table. It's as if he's waiting for something, but what for Jakes can't possibly say. 'You moping or something?'
There's no immediate reply, just the slow rise of two intertwining trails of smoke. The habit's always helped to calm Jakes's nerves. He wonders if it does the same for Morse but seriously doubts it. Morse is never still. Always thinking, never relaxing, even when he's on his own time, that's Morse to him. It's unnerving and suspicious. He never knows what to expect from this harmless-looking man with a penchant for picking at wounds better left untouched. It's almost as if he wants to set himself up for the opposition, as if he's thriving on it. It's not a very admirable trait, Jakes thinks, but it makes him reconsider his question. Maybe, just this once, he should make it up to Morse. Ease the pain of whatever it is that's troubling him.
'Just a year though, innit?' Morse's failed exam, he decides, is probably the easiest topic to broach. 'It'll be over in a blink. Bloke like you'll do his sergeant's in his sleep.'
His words certainly have an effect on Morse but he's neither grateful nor especially humble as he scoffs at Jakes through a puff of smoke that hangs heavy in the stale air between them.
'With your most generous help, I suppose.'
It's been some time since Jakes was truly taken aback. It makes him angry and wipes the carefully measured smile right off his handsome face.
'Oi, you can leave it. I said I was trying to help.'
'Help?' Morse shakes his head as his piercing blue eyes grow ever harder. 'Is that what they're calling it these days?'
It's in this very moment that Jakes realises something in Morse will never change. That there's a harsh and unforgiving truth half-hidden beneath his soft-spoken demeanour. That this often reluctant and brilliant young man will never get on like the rest of them inevitably try and do. Oh, sure enough, his genius intellect will help pave his way. And maybe he'll even make it to Chief Super one day. But he'll never fit in and he'll never be at ease with whatever life is throwing at him. This, in itself, is not a very peculiar trait to be had. The problem with Morse is that he cares. He cares too much, and still he can't stop himself from being who he is.
And this is the riddle named E. Morse, finally unravelling right in front of him. Jakes tilts his head. He's just cracked the case, but it leaves him not triumphant but with a sense of bewilderment instead.
'You know what, Morse? You do it to yourself.'
Morse barely reacts to Jakes's sudden realisation.
'So I've been told,' he replies in the same sullen tone of voice as he takes one last drag from his barely more than half-finished cigarette before putting it out on a chipped saucer that seems to serve no purpose in particular. He doesn't even have the decency to look him in the eye. It's enough to prompt Jakes into action. He, too, snuffs out what's left of his cigarette and confronts Morse, all balled fists and pointed finger. He wants to understand, but more than that he wants Morse to understand. Wants him to admit his faults and come off his high horse, once and for all. All they need to do is see eye to eye, and maybe, maybe he'll finally come to accept that perhaps Morse is the better detective, that without his ingenious deductive skills there'd be at least four unsolved murder cases shamefully rotting away in evidence boxes and police reports.
'Why do you always have to mess about?' Jakes is furious now, and he's never been above showing his disdain. 'Stick your nose into everything? Why can't you just leave it be?'
When Morse looks up, his steady gaze stand-offish and distant, he seems even less inclined to be receptive to any kind of reasoning on his part.
'I'm doing my job,' he says, and this time there's no room left for cynicism. This time Morse won't hide behind clever retorts and offhanded comments. Jakes can respect that. What he wants is for Morse to repay the favour.
'So am I. And I'm a bloody good copper!'
When Morse starts laughing it bears more resemblance to an ugly bark rather than a genuine outburst of emotion, and it's taking Jakes completely by surprise. He feels himself flush, and another wave of anger washes away all further thought on the matters of a man who won't accept his help even when he's on the edge of drowning himself in self-pity and booze.
'Shut it!' It takes him less than the blink of an eye and he's grabbed Morse by fistfuls of his shirt. 'I said shut up!'
They're so close now that the tips of their noses are almost touching. Jakes can smell the bitter-sweet whiff of scotch on Morse's ragged breath. It's then that the hoarse remnants of his laughter turn into a frantic kiss. It's one-sided at first, and needy and desperate and searing hot. It's entirely unsurprising, really, that things would take this turn. Morse clings to him like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. All things considered, it's quite tantalising but it leaves Jakes hollow and shivering. He finds himself pushing Morse away forcefully, until he bumps into the table, and there's a sharp intake of breath and a choked sound in the back of Morse's throat that reminds him of the fact that the man's got himself injured. Again.
But really, this time he's no one to blame but himself.
'You're pissed,' Jakes states, not entirely unaffected by the way Morse gingerly rubs his right hip. He's not even aware that he's doing it, and Jakes doubts that it helps ease the pain. He sees right through a smile that's more teeth than proper amusement, and when he finally speaks, deceptively light-hearted and utterly unimpressed, Jakes rolls his eyes.
'I myself prefer the term over-beered.'
'That's not beer you've had.'
The words come easy but a hint of worry shows in the way he furrows his brows. All it earns him is a shrug.
'Oh, what's it matter?' Morse replies but his lack of concern is betrayed by the effort it takes him to make his way over to the bed, where he sinks down heavily on the unmade sheets and buries his hands in the coarse material of an old blanket.
In the dim light, Jakes takes a moment to look him up and down. It's not just the way his ill-fitting clothes accentuate the weight he must have lost during the past couple of months, or how the dark circles underneath his eyes make his face look even paler. Jakes knows he's not the most perceptive of coppers but even he picks up on the unmistakable pain that shines brightly in Morse's mournful eyes.
'What's happened to you?' he finds himself asking, and the sincerity in his voice makes him shift about uncomfortably.
'The inevitability of life … and death.'
It's just his luck that Morse remains less than helpful, and for a moment he wonders if it's maybe the drink that makes him spout high-minded nonsense or if he's doing it on purpose just to rile him up.
'Say what?' he demands, on the verge of starting yet another argument.
Then he remembers about what Thursday has said. A death in the family. It certainly puts things back into perspective.
'I'm sorry about …' It occurs to him that he doesn't even know which of Morse's relatives has passed away. 'About …'
'Thanks.' The answer comes quietly. The silence that follows it stretches out between them like an uneasy truce.
'Listen, mate,' Jakes decides on a whim. 'You should go easy on yourself.'
It takes some effort, and Jakes can see that Morse's hip must be bothering him again as he leans forward and lets his head sink into his hands.
'That's what I've been trying.' Defeat muffles the sound of his voice but even now Jakes can detect a hint of impatience. He doesn't let it faze him and is instead reminded of the bottles of scotch on the kitchen table. If this is Morse's idea of taking it easy it's really no wonder he can't sort himself out.
'Does it work?' Jakes asks, and he tries to keep his voice as neutral as possible.
Morse, face still hidden in his hands, shakes his head.
And this is too much, Jakes abruptly decides. This is not what they're about and he hasn't come here to give comfort to a man he barely even knows. Doesn't want to know. Definitely hasn't asked to get this close to. Let his family and friends take the fall; Thursday even, who seems to take his role as a mentor so seriously that half of the time Jakes isn't even sure whether Morse is supposed to be his precious protégé or adopted bloody son.
'Look,' he says, voice hardened by the realisation that it's Morse who's Thursday's golden boy and that none of his skill and ambition as a policeman will ever change that. 'Perhaps I'd better ...'
He's about to shrug into his coat when Morse finally speaks up.
'Do you love her?'
And for a moment Jakes isn't even sure what he's on about now; that is, until it occurs to him that Morse must be talking about Joanie, and the confusion on his face is replaced by a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
'None of your business, is it?'
But of course Morse won't let it go. He lowers his hands and looks up, straining to comprehend what Jakes would rather be left unsaid.
'You should, you know,' he says, but there's nothing condescending about how he obviously struggles to make himself be understood; with hands outstretched, palms pointed upwards beseechingly. 'How could you not?'
To Jakes, none of this makes sense. Even worse; it leaves him unsure of himself and, as he discovers to his utter disgust, vulnerable.
'I don't know, do I?' he finally replies, exasperation showing in his movements as he lets his pea coat drop back onto the chair and decides to face Morse openly. And how could he possibly understand what it's like, having a bird like Joan Thursday waiting for him each morning as he picks up the guv from his cosy little semi-detached, packed sandwiches in one hand and the kiss of his loving wife still lingering on his lips. She's a feisty one, Joanie, and pretty and clever and way out of his league.
But love? Things are never that easy, Jakes knows. It's one of life's ugly truths, and he wonders how Morse, who seems to value the truth above everything else, can be so deceived by notions of false hope.
'Not everything's like in your fancy operas, is it?' Bitterness tinges the sombre tone of his voice as he continues to explain: 'All romance and happy endings.'
This seems to leave Morse momentarily confused but Jakes finds he can pinpoint the exact moment when understanding is dawning on his handsomely expressive face. Still, what was supposed to sober him up makes him smirk instead, even if he's trying to hide his smile by looking down at his bare feet.
'No, I suppose not,' he says.
It sounds like a peace-offering. As if Jakes would ever fall for something as easy as that!
'And why do you care anyway?' he presses on, unwilling to let things go just yet. 'You jealous, that it?'
This earns him a rather incredulous look.
'Of course I'm not jealous,' Morse scoffs but Jakes is far from finished.
'You in love with her?'
Morse thinks about it in earnest for a while, and when he finally speaks, he seems disappointed somehow.
'No.'
And just this once Jakes wishes he could take his own advice and let it go, but in the stillness that precedes his next question he comes to the realisation that Morse and he are similar, in a way he can't and won't explain.
'You in love with me, that it?'
His mouth has run dry. He doesn't want to know. And this isn't what they're about, either.
'No,' Morse replies quite quickly, quite honestly.
Jakes nods.
'Good,' he agrees matter of factly.
And that's the end of that.
'What you been listening to then?' he asks lightly as later they've taken a seat around Morse's rickety kitchen table and share two fingers of scotch between them.
'Oh, you know.' Morse shrugs, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as he rolls the glass between his hands and watches the amber liquid within slosh around lazily. 'Romance and happy endings.'
'Funny.' Jakes smiles, too. 'Sounded like caterwaulin' to me.'