Chapter Text
He wakes up disoriented. For a moment, he wonders if he had too much to drink last night – an occurrence that is becoming all too common; but no; yesterday they finally arrested the man who has been responsible for no less than four murders within the last two months, and even Morse was too tired to go to a pub.
He cranks his eyes open and frowns; later, he will think that considering everything, he stays rather remarkably calm.
Because this is quite obviously not his flat.
If he didn’t know any better –
He sits up, surprised to see that he’s wearing pyjamas even though he could have sworn he went straight to bed last night, without bothering to change.
The fact that he doesn’t recognize the pyjamas either is rather one of the least strange things that have happened so far.
Because if this actually is –
Morse gets out of bed and walks to the window.
He’s right.
This is most definitely a dwelling at Lonsdale College. He might never have finished his degree, but he still spent years here, and this looks like the room of an associate professor.
While it doesn’t explain what he is doing here, it does help to know where he is. He would like to go through the place in order to figure out how he ended up in this particular bed, but he cannot risk to anger yet another academic, not when he’s just returned to work after his time in prison and the cabin.
So he quickly dresses into a suit he finds in the closet – it’s his size at least, and considering how many clothes there are, there’s a good chance the owner won’t notice immediately.
Morse hoped he could make it out of Lonsdale without drawing attention to himself.
It’s not to be.
One or two minutes after he’s left the rooms, someone calls out “Dev!” At first, he pays them no attention, but then they continue calling out, “Dev! Devy! Endeavour!”
He then has no choice but to turn around and is astonished when he sees Jerome Hogg hurry towards him. He was one of the few who never stuck to the nickname “Pagan” and instead constantly used his last name.
“There you are!” he clasps his shoulder in a gesture that speaks of greater familiarity than he’s ever shown him before. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Where have you been these last few days?”
The last few days? Morse is not aware that they had an appointment, or why Jerome should be surprised not to see a man he hasn’t met in months. “I’ve had a lot to do.”
He chuckles. “I’d say. You have that drawn-out look again. Let’s go get breakfast”.
Morse judges it best to comply.
They pass the porter’s lodge; the second he sees them, he hurries out, grinning. “Excuse me, sir!”
Morse assumes he is talking to Jerome, but it’s him he addresses. “Your mother called. I am supposed to tell you that your mother is expecting you for dinner tonight, and that it will be impossible to excuse yourself from it. I’m sorry, sir, but she said to tell you exactly that –“
“It’s alright” Morse says, throwing Jerome a glance. While he seems to share the porter’s mirth, there is no indication that he remembers that Morse’s mother has been dead for decades, and Jerome is not one to forget gossip easily.
“A good idea from me, then, dragging you to breakfast. When she asks you when you last ate, you won’t have to lie.”
He doesn’t know how to reply.
As they walk to the dining hall, he cannot help but observes that the few students who are already around greet him with as much reverence, and perhaps more enthusiasm, as Jerome. He’s growing more confused with very second that passes. Is this a time? If so, it feels more realistic than any dream he’s ever had before.
“There we are. And you better clean your plate, young man, I won’t be at the end of your mother’s glares again – I am rather sure the last one stole several years of my life.”
Again that reference to his mother. But he can hardly ask how or when Jerome met her.
At least they are not disturbed during breakfast. Morse manages to eat, even though it’s still too little for Jerome; the whole meal, he acts less like the somewhat friendly acquaintances they are and more like they are close friends. He even reigns in the gossip he knows Morse abhors, instead keeping up a steady stream of information about Lonsdale; some of the names he mentions Morse knows, others he’s not familiar with.
“And then old Pinnock criticized Manston’s Hebrew translation a bit too rashly – you know how he can be – and they almost came to blows, Pinter had to get in-between... But then, who am I talking to? You and your obsession with grammar...”
Who he is talking to, Morse has come to realize, is someone Jerome for some reason regards as a fellow associate at Lonsdale, rather then the policeman he knows. He decides to play along, for now.
At least it’s Saturday, and he won’t bee expected to hold any lectures.
After breakfast – and he has faithfully promised to Jerome that yes, he will have family dinner tonight – he returns to what he now realizes must be his own rooms in this strange world he woke up in.
Clearly, he was not lucid upon waking, for it soon becomes clear that if he had given the room more than a cursory glance, he would have noticed certain things. The pictures of him and what must be his colleagues, considering he recognizes a few faces from his student days – Jerome must indeed be a close friend of his here, based on the fact that he’s in more than one – his favourite books on the shelves, his records in a drawer –
He frowns when he finds a record of the Wildwood amongst his other music. Why would he –
It’s not the only new addition to his collection. There are a few Jazz pieces, even more classical recordings – some of which he has been wishing for, but couldn’t afford – and even It’s All Over Now by the Rolling Stones. What is going on?
He repairs to the bedroom he woke up in, finding a wallet that’s presumably his on the nightstand. He grabs it only to be struck by the picture that he apparently keeps in it ( a habit he definitely didn’t have when he was himself).
It is a picture of him and the Thursdays. While it is somewhat reassuring to learn that he still knows them here, it is rather confusing as to why he should ever have been in contact with the police, or grown close enough to them to have their picture taken with his arm around Sam Thursday’s shoulders; and even if –
“Boys, stop it. I want a nice picture.”
“Dev started it” Sam complains despite their old family joke that he never does.
“I don’t care who started it, I’m ending it!”
“Can’t you talk to her” he pleads, but Dev only laughs and ruffles his hair.
“Shouldn’t you know by now that pleading won’t help you when Mother uses that tone?”
He shoves his hand away. “Stop that. I’m taller than you!”
Morse shakes his head, confused about what he just saw. Certainly...
No. It’s already slipping away, leaving him once more with the mystery why he would have a picture of the Thursdays’ in his wallet.
Unsure of how to proceed, he decides to phone Joyce. Maybe she can make sense of all this.
No one picks up the phone, however, not even Gwen, who usually always seems to know when he calls so she can scold him about anything that comes to mind once more.
God, he hopes Joyce is alright.
He spends the rest of a day trying to wake up – as illogical as it is, it still makes the most sense to consider all of this a dream.
By the time the sun sets, he knows he has to try something else.
Whoever the mother he is supposed to have dinner with is, he won’t be attending. Since he does know the Thursdays, there is no reason not to ask for the inspector’s help.
At the very least, he could help him to make sense of all this.
Thankfully there is some kind of connection between them, so even if they are changed like everyone Morse meets, they won’t –
To his surprise, he’s barely reached the door of the house before it is thrown wide open.
In the next moment, Mrs. Thursday ushers him in, a big smile on her face. “I saw you walk up! Come in, Dev!”
“That’s very –“
He’s interrupted by her all but robbing him of his coat. “You’ll end up giving yourself a heat stroke” he scolds him, “And you’ve lost weight again. Have you eaten today?”
“I had breakfast at college –“
“Good.”
And then, all his theories crash and burn.
Because Mrs. Thursday simply throws a glance at the clock on the wall and says, “Your father should come home any minute, now.”