Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A new face around the station wasn’t anything special. PCs came and went all the time as promotions dragged them away to pastures new. Working in CID was hardly the friendliest of professions; more often than not, people simply moved on.

But something about the way Morse looked when he sat at his desk for the first time, the barcode shadow of the window shutters breaking up his face into strips of light and dark, felt different to the other people Peter had worked with.

It was like he just fitted here. Like there had been a gaping hole in the fabric of Cowley nick since it was built and that he was the only one who could plug it.

Not that Peter had really been paying any attention to it anyway.

Morse wasn’t exactly afraid of stepping on any toes, either. Though he was quiet and odd and didn’t turn in the same social circles that most officers did, he had a bigger presence than everyone else. If he was around, you knew it. Or Jakes did, at least.

He solved the cases, anyway. He did what he had to do, which was his job, and everything else wasn’t worth dwelling on. He’d heard that enough from Thursday over the past few weeks; every quip he threw Morse’s way was met with a disapproving glance from the Inspector, who appeared to have taken the new constable under his wing without hesitation.

Anyway.

None of this mattered because Peter wasn’t thinking about it at all.

It was somewhere between late afternoon and early evening (because in summer you can never differentiate between the two) so Morse was the last thing on his mind. He had spent the time since finishing work that day making himself dinner and attempting to switch off the detective side of his brain, but realised he was distinctly lacking in alcohol.

At first, he set off for the pub, but something about that didn’t seem right today. He wasn’t in the mood for socialising, really, so he instead made his way to a corner shop and picked up a six pack of lager and then took the long route back to his flat through the park.

That was where he encountered Morse, walking in the same direction as him.

And, for some reason, though the thought of sitting in the pub with his normal crowd was the last thing he wanted tonight, it was as easy as breathing to fall into step and into conversation with the constable.

“You just got out of work?”

The other man nodded. “I wanted to read up some of the old files on that case Thursday said might be linked to yesterday’s burglary.”

“Oh, putting in the extra hours, eh? Course you are.”

Morse gave him a confused look and rolled his eyes. “Just because I’m thorough doesn’t mean I’m trying to steal your thunder or anything.”

“What?”

“I get it, you’re jealous about the whole bagman thing. It’s quite obvious.”

Spluttering, and hoping the glow of the sun was red enough to conceal his blush. “Oh, sod off. I’m not jealous. Don’t want to be a bloody bagman, anyway, following Thursday around day in and day out.”

“Alright then.” There was a laugh, one he struggled to imagine belonging to Morse. Morse didn’t seem the laughing sort. “Where are you actually heading?” he added.

Peter couldn’t remember exactly when he stopped walking in the direction of home, and instead in whatever direction Morse was going. “I… uh, nowhere in particular. Just fancied some fresh air.”

“Me too. D’you want to sit?” He gestured to the grass around them, where the land dipped down from the path into an expanse of sun-bathed space. There were a few lingering groups spread out in the area, soaking up the last of the day’s sun before it got dark, and the low hum of distant chatter was rather enticing.

“What, on the ground?”

Morse shrugged like it seemed completely normal to him. Like Peter was the weird one in this situation, and the confidence with which he did this was convincing enough that Peter followed him down the bank until they were a suitable distance from the path, and lay his coat out to sit on.

Instinctively, he took one of the bottles from their cardboard crate and pressed it into Morse’s hand, before taking one for himself. He plucked out the bottle opener that he kept in his wallet and leant over Morse to hook it under the cap and flick it upwards.

“Thanks.” He tapped his bottle lightly against Peter’s, the clink of glass on glass such a harsh sound compared to the blurred softness of everything else around them.

After a while, Peter mumbled, “you’re alright, you know?”. The words came out of his mouth before he had the chance to stop them.

“Hmm?”

“You’re alright. I know I might always have it in for you at work, but you seem a decent bloke. And I’m definitely not jealous of you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“On one mouthful of lager? I hope not,” Peter chuckled. “Why?”

“Being nice to me, and all. It’s not very in character.”

Peter shrugged this off with a laugh because he didn’t know how else to respond. “Maybe I just wanna be nice to you,” he finally blurted out, but regretted it as soon as it had left his lips, so he added, “or maybe I’m trying to lull you into a false sense of security so I can… I don’t know, spy on you or something.”

“Are you absolutely sure this is the first drink you’ve had today?”

“Careful, or I’ll think you want to get me drunk. Although if you do, you’re going to need to buy me something a bit stronger than this.”

“Is that a formal request?” Morse mused.

“Okay. Why not.”

A pause. “Alright then.”

He wasn’t really sure what that meant until he felt a cold hand nudge his own arm out of the way as Morse leant towards him, inclining his head upwards to press their lips together.

It was then that Peter realised he’d been flirting pretty much from the beginning of their conversation. And it had been a joke, he was sure of that, because why the hell would he want to flirt with Morse? But then with that mouth on his it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

He parted his lips ever so slightly at Morse’s advances. That was probably what snapped him out of it, actually, that heat of Morse’s tongue against his skin. Peter lurched back suddenly with a sharp intake of breath.

Shit.

Okay.

Morse looked confused, embarrassed and annoyed all at once, but he didn’t leave, and Peter didn’t want to leave either, so they both sat next to each other in silence, still close enough that their legs could brush but nothing more. Peter took a swig from his bottle, emptying it.

It seemed like they were the only ones left in this part of the park, thank God, or they would have worse to deal with than a little awkwardness.

Though the light was rapidly disappearing below the trees, the air still held much of the day’s warmth. It was comfortable, soft, welcoming, the kind of weather that makes the air feel like it’s wrapping you up.

Morse shrugging off his blazer and rolling up his shirtsleeves, lying back onto the grass with his arms behind his head, was a sight that would stay with Peter for a long time. It should probably be illegal; it was indecent stretching out like that with his shirt pulling up and exposing a sliver of skin that made Peter shudder.

It felt like it was something he shouldn’t be allowed to see. There was the Morse he worked with, the one who wore a jacket even on the hottest of days, and buttoned his shirt right up to the top no matter how much it made him sweat, but then there was this Morse. Off-duty Morse with no tie and his top button undone, who had bloody freckles on his forearms and who smiled and shared a drink with him after work (even though he’d made a point in the past about how much he hated lager) and kissed him with little hesitation.

He didn’t deserve this version of Morse, but he suspected it was the kind of thing he could easily get addicted to.

Peter felt out of place sitting up when Morse was lying down beside him, so he reclined and let the grass cushion his head. The ground below him was beginning to cool, but no dew had condensed on it just yet, so it was largely comfortable.

Their bodies were aligned, parallel to each other with arms pressed close enough that Peter could feel his warmth through the stiff cotton of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean-” Morse’s voice was shakier now, all tense and full of worry. He cut himself off before he had a chance to finish.

“What?”

“I’m- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

Peter wanted to put a stop to that train of thought right there, because the last thing he wanted was to have made Morse feel guilty, but every time he found the words to say it they crumbled on his tongue.

Fuck this, he thought, and tipped his head sideways so that it was resting on Morse’s shoulder, hoping that would be enough to get his point across.

What was his point, anyway? He’d lost track of what he wanted a long time ago. (That was a lie. He wanted Morse, but he felt like he’d already mucked that up.)

If Peter closed his eyes and ignored the blades of grass tickling the back of his neck, it almost felt like they were in bed together. Now that was a dangerous thought.

After that, it was easy enough to let his mind drift. It never strayed too far from the topic of Morse though, because that was impossible with the two of them lying so close together, especially when the constable faked a yawn, stretching his hands up and using the movement as an excuse to wrap one arm around Peter and pull him in closer.

The distant sound of chatter pulled him out of the haze. Morse heard too, and they both reacted at the same time, sitting up and cursing quietly, trying to look a little more normal as a small gaggle of people wandered by down the path about twenty yards away from them.

They were drunk (it was a Friday night after all) and didn’t bat an eyelid at the two men sitting in complete silence in the middle of the lawn while it was pretty much pitch dark.

Once the group were gone, Peter turned back to Morse, their gaze meeting for the first time in a while, though it wasn’t quite the same now there was no sunlight to glow in those blue eyes.

It was enough to know that they were there though, even in the darkness when they were no more than a faint shimmer of the little light that was reaching them. Enough that Peter mirrored what Morse had done earlier, twisting so that he could face him, laying one hand flat on the side of Morse’s face, and guiding it down to meet his own.

There was a bit more weight in it this time, now Peter had stopped pretending that he didn’t know what he wanted, but the way their lips moved together was as gentle and unhurried as before. He looped an arm behind Morse’s neck to pull him in closer, letting their bodies align as they sunk back down onto the grass.

The bit of skin exposed by Morse’s open collar was infinitely more compelling now; it would be so easy to dip his head and leave wet bruises there for only Morse to see, but he felt like that gesture wouldn’t be appreciated by the morning. And in any case, Morse’s mouth was distracting enough, lips parting and eager and reeling him in.

Somewhere between the second and third kiss, Peter realised he wanted to go home with Morse.

He probably wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He’d need a fresh shirt the next morning, and flings with colleagues were off limits.

But damn it did he want to.

His train of thought was derailed when Morse moved from his lips to kissing down his jaw; he couldn’t help but let out the kind of noise his more sensible self might be ashamed of.

Morse laughed at this, and it was that laugh again. The one that Morse would never let him hear under normal circumstances.

How on Earth did he get here? One minute he was popping out to top up his drinks cupboard, and the next he was huddled up on the grass with the very colleague that had been getting on his nerves all week. One of Morse’s arms was wrapped around him, and Peter’s head rested against his chest so that Morse’s heartbeat was all he could hear.

His fingers were getting cold now, so he reached for a cigarette and lit it, sitting up so as not to blow smoke right into Morse’s face. He felt very watched as he did this, with those eyes on him the whole time. A hand reached out to play with his tie, and he could tell Morse was smiling even if it was hard to see in the low light.

Just as he was about to take another drag, the cigarette was plucked right from his lips and stolen by Morse, who promptly blew a cloud of smoke in his direction. There was something hypnotic in watching Morse smoke, and watching his hands in general, especially now he knew how they felt brushing across his skin.

“I should probably head home. Work tomorrow,” Morse said, though he sounded like he regretted having to leave.

“Yeah. Course.” Peter gathered himself up, plucking the coat he’d been lying on from the ground and realising quite how damp it had become from the earth below it. He’d probably find smudges of mud on it tomorrow and spend the morning trying to rinse them off.

Part of him wanted to kiss Morse again, but he suspected bitterly that the time had passed, so he simply walked with him through the park in silence until their paths diverged to their respective flats. He watched Morse recede into the distance, hoping for one final glimpse of that bloody addictive smile.

He got his wish; just for a moment, Morse turned back to meet his eyes, sending a jolt of some unidentifiable feeling right through Peter’s body.

And, as he turned towards home, he realised that the bastard had never given his cigarette back.

Chapter Text

Peter watched Morse more after that night. Sat at his desk rolling a cigarette back and forth in his palm, looking deep in thought about a case when he was really taking glances at how the sunlight filtered through the constable’s hair. He was desperate to catch a glimpse of that Other Morse, the one he’d seen oh so briefly a few weeks ago. Perhaps if he watched him for long enough there’d be a break in the façade, a crack in Morse’s meticulously crafted image to let light illuminate the side of him so few got to see.

Peter had seen it now, and it was hard to forget.

And he wanted to see that version of Morse again just to convince himself that the first time had been real. That Peter hadn’t imagined it. And alright, maybe he was curious how long one could keep up such an image before it inevitably slipped.

He didn’t understand how Morse could do it. Just step into his new job, barely making a name for himself before he started snogging colleagues on a whim. Not only that, but a colleague who berated him at every opportunity, who by all accounts didn’t even like him.

A colleague who was a man, with no thought for the dangers that placed him in. Kissing Jakes with no warning, not even a hint to test the waters, somehow so sure that it wouldn’t land him in trouble, or perhaps just not caring either way. The thought of it was impossible, Peter couldn’t make head nor tail of it.

And then he quickly learnt that Morse was just like that.

Always romantically entangled with someone or other, more often than not a witness of their latest case or, once, the bloody killer. One thing was certain: it was always the wrong person at the wrong time. Talk about unprofessional. At least Peter had the decency and restraint to keep his flings separate from work.

Apart from that one time he hadn’t.

That was the problem. He hadn’t. He’d slipped, let his guard down for just a minute but it was enough to put everything he’d worked for at risk. One moment might well shatter every bit of his carefully shaped reputation, the safety net he’d surrounded himself with since his adolescence. All for the most insufferable, obstinate, holier-than-thou constable he’d ever had the misfortune to share an office with.

They were in some huge, horribly modern house where a body had been found that morning. Miserable case, a murder that wouldn’t be out of place in some cheap horror movie and the crime scene discovered by one of his young daughters. The sort of thing that made you sick to your stomach.

It seemed relatively open and shut though, some resentful ex-lover. Jealousy was a vicious emotion, and one that in Peter’s experience made for an easier case. The emotional ones never cover their tracks as well as they mean to.

Across the room, Morse was talking with a young woman, the mother of the girl who’d discovered the body. Through red-rimmed eyes, she looked up at him like a life ring in a stormy sea, like it took all her might not to fling her arms around him right there and then.

And it was so subtle, but he could see the way Morse’s body language shifted. His shoulders relaxed, head inclined to one side as he listened to her speak. Where his fingers had previously been incessantly tapping on his notebook, they now fell still. Even from halfway across the room, Peter could see it in Morse’s eyes: not quite want, but just the thought of it. Considering the option. Letting his mind wander a little. A smirk played at his lips.

There it was. That was the Morse he’d been waiting for all this time. Of course he’d drop his guard as soon as some pretty young thing walked by, even though Jakes had been waiting to catch a glimpse of it since that first time. He wondered if it was so glaringly obvious to everyone else, or if there was just something wrong with him.

To him it was so blatant, every slight change in body language a practically obscene reflection of what was going on in Morse’s mind. He might as well have propositioned her right then and there for how subtle he was being.

Then Peter started to realise he might be the only one who cared that much.

Morse closed his notebook and slipped it into a pocket inside his blazer. But his eyes lingered on the woman as she left the room, and her eyes lingered on him when she turned back for one last glance. Peter was sure there were a thousand words in that moment between them. He could almost hear them running through Morse’s head.

He’d spent nearly a month waiting to catch Morse in the act, see this other version of him, so much lighter and freer than the one he usually saw at work. And yet now, here, when he’d finally got his wish, it sat uneasily in his stomach. Being on the receiving end of those not-at-all subtle glances had felt warm and welcoming, but watching them shared with someone else left a bitter taste in Peter’s mouth.

Because that wasn’t his now, never had been in the first place. Some things are only meant to be experienced once. Seeing it now felt wrong because… well Morse wasn’t sharing it with him. He wasn’t meant to see it, wasn’t meant to notice, it wasn’t his to admire. The uneasiness Jakes felt was a reaction to having violated Morse’s privacy, nothing more or less.

Once the body was moved, they left the home to be searched by forensics. Jakes and Morse fell into step beside one another, the Jag parked a short walk away after a freak storm had flooded parts of the property’s long driveway.

“That woman you were talking to, Elaine, was it? She got anything for us?”

Morse shook his head. “She’s not in a state to be useful to us yet. Too distressed. She can barely make it through a sentence let alone give a valuable testimony. I’ll- we’ll have to speak to her again in a day or two when she’s gotten over the shock, but I don’t imagine she did it if that’s what you’re implying.”

“’Course you bloody don’t,” Jakes scoffed.

“Hm?”

“Well, it’s not like you’ve had a good track record when it comes to birds and murder suspects.”

Morse gave him an odd look. “What are you on about?”

“Just because you’re already halfway in love with her, doesn’t mean she’s innocent.”

“Jesus, Jakes! Leave it out. She’s just found her ex-husband, the father of her children, disembowelled on her dining room table, do you not think we can afford her a bit of respect until she’s in a better state of mind?” Morse scowled at him, digging his hands roughly into his pockets. “Did you contribute anything to the case back there or did you spend the entire bloody time trying to deduce where my interests lie?”

Okay, he could admit that it was a bit of a low blow. “Sorry, I- look it was only a joke, yeah? All I meant is she seemed sketchy to me, it’s not a big deal.”

“Save your jealousy for when you’re off the clock, Jakes.”

“Jealous?” Jake spluttered. What could there be to be jealous of?

“The bagman thing. I said it from the start. That’s why you’re so invested in me… in tearing me down whenever you get the chance. You said you didn’t care about it, but it’s clear that it bothers you.”

It was safe to say that the carefree Morse he’d been with in the park was well out of his reach now, locked deep within a stoic exterior. Any chance of Morse letting Peter see that side of him again was slipping away with every word.

“I’m not… I wasn’t- God you’re infuriating. It was just a damn joke, not my fault you wear your heart on your sleeve! Maybe if you didn’t make it so obvious when a pretty girl caught your eye, then we wouldn’t have this problem, would we?”

Morse looked incredulous. “Obvious? What makes you think you’re suddenly an expert in my personal life?”

He shrugged, because he really didn’t know when it had happened. When rivalry became this obsessive interest, this curiosity about his colleague.

Not his colleague, he told himself. Not the Morse he worked with. It was the Morse he’d seen in the park that he was searching for. The Morse that had kissed him.

“You just… look, it’s easy to see. You’re not subtle about it. I can tell when you fancy someone.”

“No, Peter. You really can’t.”

Peter spent the rest of the day wondering what that meant.

He didn’t really think about the kiss, as a rule, but sometimes it was hard not to. It’s not like Morse was the only one who flashed up in his daydreams every so often, he wasn’t that special. Everyone has moments they like to relive occasionally, thoughts of soft touches and good kisses as he tried to get to sleep.

And so sue him, Morse was a good kisser.

He’d found himself wondering why Morse had never come to him like that again, never let his guard down after work and taken Peter home. It was curious that he’d been so willing to back then but was so guarded now. It’s not like Peter particularly cared whether the events of that night were repeated, but he did wonder what stopped Morse from coming back.

He still owed Peter a cigarette, after all.

And it was hard not to see glimmers of the Morse he’d lain with in the park, no matter how well hidden it was. To see a stoic face and remember those smiles in the half-light, to hear a solemn voice and remember that wonderful laughter coming from the same lips.

He’d like to hear Morse laugh again just to prove that he could. Because maybe that time was just a one off and Morse really wasn’t the laughing sort. Maybe he was always a miserable bastard.

After today, he’d started to think that was the only feasible option. Though he’d only been at the force for a few months now, Morse already seemed darker, far more so than the person Peter had spent that summer evening with. Since then, Morse had barely let his walls down for a millisecond, hardly smiled or laughed or joked, never looked at Peter like he wanted to know more about him. They weren’t friends, that much he’d made peace with, but he’d like something, anything, to show that Morse didn’t think he was the most awful person in the world.

Then that something came, in the shape of a knock at the door at half midnight when Peter was finishing off a final drink before bed.

Curious as to who on God’s green Earth would be knocking at this time of night, he opened the door only a small sliver at first to get a look at who was outside. A weight pushed against the door as soon as it cracked open, and in surprise Peter stumbled back to see none other than Endeavour Morse lurching through.

As he brushed past Peter, it became clear that he was soaking wet, his blazer drenched and dripping over the floor, wet footprints on the linoleum. His hair hung heavy, darkened by the water, and it was plastered to his forehead.

And he was drunk, that much was obvious from the smell of him. But Peter also noted the slump of his shoulders as his arms hung limp at his sides, the tell-tale sway of his body as he fought against gravity. Looking even closer, his pupils were blown wide open.

He didn’t even remember when Morse got his address, let alone decided this was the right place to stagger to at the middle of the night when he was half-cut and lonely. Peter’s first instinct was to shut the door in his face. Tell him to go home and sober up before work tomorrow, to pull himself together, to stop acting like a fool.

And yet.

Well, it wasn’t that easy, all of a sudden.

He’d always prided himself on being a rational man, keeping emotion at an arm’s length from his decision making. There was no reason Morse should be here. He’d be far better off sleeping this off at home. Waking up with a cold shower tomorrow and wearing a clean shirt to work.

But there was a look in Morse’s eyes that he didn’t recognise, which lit a spark of curiosity in him. And somewhere deep down, a pang of concern that kept him from turning Morse back out onto the streets. He could sober the man up at least, he supposed. Wouldn’t do any harm.

“What time d’you call this?” He stepped back to let Morse fumble his way towards the sofa and curl up there. “And, more importantly, why the fuck are you in my house?”

Morse shrugged. “It’s cold out. Forgot my coat.”

It seemed like he wasn’t going to get a better response than that, so Peter quickly decided it wasn’t worth asking.

“Alright, fuck it, stay there then you daft sod. But at least take that jacket off, you’re getting my furniture wet.”

He padded over to the sink and poured them both a glass of water. For a brief moment he felt uncomfortable wandering around in his nightclothes while he had company, but it wasn’t nearly as compromising a position as Morse was in. Changing would be more effort than it was worth.

By the time he returned, Morse was halfway out of his blazer, but the sodden lining was sticking to his skin. Morse’s clumsy hands writhed to escape from the sleeves.  Peter could have helped him, but it was entertaining to watch him struggle. A small price to pay to let the man stay in his home for the night.

“Sit up and drink this.” He shoved the glass towards Morse’s face. “And then I’m going to bed. We’ve got work tomorrow if you even manage to wake up.”

Peter sunk down onto the floor, leaning backwards to rest on the sofa seeing as his only chair was currently occupied by his somewhat-unwelcome guest. He watched as Morse sat up slowly and took small sips from the glass. When he was done, he sank back down into the cushions, his head so close to where Peter was sitting that his beer-tinged breath brushed the back of his neck.

Well, this was a far cry from the version of Morse he’d been looking for, that smiling, open, affectionate one. But it certainly wasn’t anywhere close to the guarded and quiet man he worked with. Some middle ground, where he’d let his walls down, but he hadn’t the energy to take advantage of it.

“Why did you come here?”

“Told you. ‘s cold.”

“No, why here. I didn’t even know you knew where I lived, and suddenly you’d rather come here than go home and sleep in your own bed?”

Morse chuckled, ever so quietly. It was exactly like Peter remembered it. His stomach lurched, with that soft noise echoing back and forth inside his skull. “It’s really not that complicated, Peter.”

They were so close, Peter realised. They hadn’t been this close for a long time, probably not since summer. Even if he brushed past Morse in the office, he’d never feel that tingling sensation of hot breath on his back. It felt so wrong, having Morse like this in his house, drunk and half asleep.

It took everything in his power not to let his head roll back, rest against the cushions and let that steady warmth soothe him to sleep. His body urged him to turn around, to get just one glimpse at Morse as his eyes began to droop.

How had it been so easy last time?

They’d barely known each other, had drunk perhaps a bottle of beer between them, and yet back then it took only an incline of the head to bring his lips up against Morse’s. Why, now, was it so difficult, with far more alcohol in both of their systems, and months more familiarity between them?

It was the tiredness and the drink, he was sure, that was filling his head with these feelings. He hadn’t been on a date for a while, in fairness. And okay, he was curious. Even though he’d spent months convincing himself he only wanted to unpick Morse, to understand how he worked, it was hard to deny that there was something else. Sitting here, with Morse’s damp hair brushing cold streaks on his shoulder, as Peter’s heart fought its way out of his chest and his clammy hands ached to reach out to the body behind him, he realised what he’d wanted all along was just Morse.

All that time spent breaking down every facet of the man’s body language, just because Peter wanted to know how he felt. He had analysed every crack in that stony exterior for a point of entry so that he could reach through those walls and find the version of Morse he’d been longing for all this time. Because some part of him desperately hoped that one of those many Morses still wanted to lay him down in the park at twilight and kiss him senseless.

So okay, maybe he thought about the kiss quite a lot. Like he’d said, everyone has moments they like to relive when they’re bored and alone and sleep won’t come. But it was more than that. Of all the strangers he’d kissed since, all the faceless people he’d taken home after a night on the booze, none of them stuck in his mind like this.

He never remembered the way their arms felt around him, the soft brush of lips on his skin, the feeling of his hands in their hair. Not like he remembered Morse.

And fuck it, maybe that was all he’d wanted ever since. Maybe he’d been obsessing over it all this time, burying it in denial, convincing himself he was just trying to solve the mystery of Endeavour Morse. Maybe he wished he was brave enough to lift Morse’s face up to his and kiss him like he deserved to be kissed. Maybe he wished that Morse was sober so he could take him to bed and find out how far down those freckles went.

If he turned his head, their faces would only be inches apart. So, he didn’t.

Best to just leave him to sleep off the drink.

He should really go to bed. Work in the morning, and all.

Chapter Text

A shroud of December fell around Oxford, Cowley’s frost-bitten rooftops blending seamlessly into glaring white clouds. Peter squinted against the harsh glow of ice on every surface.

He’d been smoking more lately. Work was rough, as was common in the colder months. Even a standard house call in this weather sapped his energy. He found himself leaving his lighter flickering for just a few extra moments to steal a hint of warmth from that tiny flame. A little glowing rebellion against the harsh ice whiteness of the world around it.

And okay, so it was currently the only thing that kept him sane. Sometimes that burn at the back of his throat was all that could bring him back into focus.

Not a lot had changed in the past few months. He still spent his days glaring at Morse from the other side of a haze of smoke, only now it made his skin crawl.

Perhaps more had changed than he’d admit to even himself. He didn’t look with curiosity, not anymore; he’d seen all he needed to see now. There were no more layers he wished to peel back of that façade. He was utterly insufferable inside and out, and Peter hated himself for not being able to tear his eyes away.

Looking at Morse had become a self-destructive hobby. Like staring into the heart of a fire, hypnotised by a glare so bright it hurt his eyes.

Peter just might go blind one of these days.

It all started when Joan visited her dad at work. He’d forgotten his pipe or something, and she was dropping it by on her way into town. Why she was there wasn’t important because Peter wasn’t looking at her.

Morse’s eyes tracked her across the room, lingered on the door to Thursday’s office when it closed behind her. Perhaps it should have been a sign that he had a problem, when instead of appreciating the pretty young thing leaving a trail of perfume through the nick, he couldn’t tear his eyes from bloody Morse.

And Peter absolutely despised himself, but his skin crawled at the sight of it. Because he could imagine Morse at the Thursdays’ driveway every morning, catching a glimpse of Joan in her coat and hat while he waited for the Inspector, letting his mind wander as it did so often. Course he’d fancy her, who wouldn’t? It wasn’t like Morse was the only one here staring.

He’s just the only one who’d be stupid enough to go after her.

And worse, he’d probably get away with it. If there was anyone from work who Thursday would give the go ahead, it’d be Morse.

Christ.

Peter could live with a fling, honestly. He wasn’t naïve enough to think Morse didn’t get his fair share of birds, but he could also make an educated guess that few of them got a second date. That’s all Peter had been, and no doubt by now he was forgotten amongst the trail of faceless others left in the dust.

But even Morse wouldn’t go as far as to mess Miss Thursday around if it didn’t mean anything. Peter stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, harder than he needed to.

He couldn’t get that image of Morse’s wandering eyes out of his mind. They were inspecting a burglary in town, but he couldn’t look in the constable’s direction without his stomach lurching at the thought of him and Joan together.

It was stupid. He’d seen Morse checking people out before, plenty of times. And plenty of times, those looks went no further. But there was something different about Joan. Somehow when he looked at them, he saw two people that the universe wanted to hold together. Some awful romance novel’s protagonist and their will-they-won’t-they love interest that you knew would end up married with two kids from the first page. It scared Peter senseless.

Why? There was lust and then there was this. This need to keep Morse all to himself, feeling sick to his stomach when someone else so much as glanced his way. As if he had any right to it himself.

Even if Peter were the only one in the room, Morse still wouldn’t look at him.

Not really look, with intent and weight and meaning.

Not like he watched Joan, sitting at his desk looking dumbly upwards through his lashes, tracing the edges of her, the way her clothes moved over what was underneath them, hanging on until the very moment she disappeared from view.

He pretended that he wouldn’t go home and ache to feel those eyes on him instead.

The burglary case was wrapped up by sunset. Some spurned lover type, turning a poor girl’s house upside down for incriminating old love letters he’d planned to scatter far and wide. He was locked up before sunset, snivelling for forgiveness in the cells before he had a chance to enact his plans.

As night fell, the harsh white light of winter was set ablaze by streetlights, frost absorbing that orange flush to shroud the streets in warmth.

It was still bitingly cold, too cold to even smoke at risk of losing fingers. And as he saw the pub on the corner come into view, its pull was nothing short of magnetic. Warmth, glow, a buzz of chatter and that welcoming smell of alcohol you find nowhere else. It was a Friday, there was sure to be a familiar face or two to share a pint with before he continued his commute.

And there was, at the bar. Some bloke he’d bunked with back when they were both in uniform, a fresh faced constable, before he’d discovered the pleasures of living alone. Peter filled the empty space beside him at the bar and ordered the two of them a round. A catch up over a drink was exactly what he needed to take his mind off things.

And yet, somewhere around the second pint, his eyes began to wander. No intention, not tonight, just taking stock of his surroundings once small talk had become companionable silence. And in amongst the heavy smell of smoke and beer, a fresh note cut through it all, one he remembered with a lurch.

He jerked his head up. Yes, there it was. Joan Thursday disappearing into a booth round the corner with a group of friends, all lively and smiling and dolled up for the evening. Her hair had been done up all nice, not a trace of the formal updo she’d worn to the station that morning. No, she looked light and free, curls bouncing at her shoulders as she laughed along with her mates. Any other day and he would barely have batted an eyelid; yeah, she was easy on the eye, but Thursday’s girl was off limits to anyone who valued their wages.

Today, though, he couldn’t help but picture Morse again with that obscene look on his face. If he were here he’d pretend not to have noticed, but every so often his eyes would drift over to their table to see if she was still there. All the time he was trying to focus on his drink she’d be occupying his every thought, and he’d spend the evening working up the courage to catch her eye.

Peter turned it into such a ludicrously pitiful image in his head that he could almost laugh at it, until he caught onto his own hypocrisy.

He just wanted Morse to look at him. That’s all it was. All it had ever been this whole time.

He wanted Morse to look at him and acknowledge his bloody existence for a start, and not just when work demanded it.

He wanted to feel Morse’s eyes raking up and down his body, a sign that their stupid summer evening together wasn’t just a touch-starved delusion he’d dreamt up. He wanted to make eye contact and know that they were both thinking the exact same thing.

“Jakes?”

Alright, perhaps he hadn’t been the most riveting of conversational partners while his mind was busy drifting into the gutter.

“Sorry mate, what was that?”

“Oh, I was just heading off home. Gotta get back to the Mrs, you know how it is.”

“See you ‘round.” Peter’s drink was halfway finished, and he took another sip.

Christ. People his age were married, having kids. And Peter was squirming to schoolgirl fantasies of probably the worst person he’d ever met. He was alone now, the half-flat remnants of a lager in his hand, trying to drink away thoughts that made him want to heave his guts out. That was the moment Joan appeared at his shoulder in a haze of floral perfume to order a gin and tonic. “Hello there, Sergeant.”

“Wotcher.” Peter gave her a slight smile as if he hadn’t been thinking about her all day.

Her cheeks were flushed from the drink, and by God was Peter’s own alcohol consumption making her look lovely. “What are you doing here all alone?” she chuckled. “I’d have thought you’d have much better things to do on a Friday night. Are you waiting for anyone?”

Peter shook his head. But maybe he had been waiting for her without realising it. “Nothing so exciting, I assure you. Just needed a drink or two to warm me up before I head home. How about you?”

“Oh, nothing much,” she shrugged. “Just a few drinks with the girls from work, but Sandra’s headed off home now and Maggie attached herself to some policeman not long after we got here. I thought you’d be decent enough company for me to have one last drink.”

Peter definitely wasn’t misreading the flirtation in her tone, but it was only there because she was tipsy. Either way, like she’d said, she was decent enough company for a final drink. He ordered another pint, even though the empty in his hand was intended to be the last.

God, she was looking at him just like Morse looked at her. Not quite so blatant, of course, but that shy little glance at his lips and the cigarette that sat on them, that was all he needed to know. And sure, it might not be the person he wanted, but he was hardly going to pass up on that kind of attention. “Fancy a smoke?”

She considered it for a while, as if wondering whether the smell would make it through that barricade of perfume and into her clothes. “Alright then.”

He lit her a fresh one, his own dwindling to nothing in the ashtray. She inhaled cautiously, holding back a splutter, but it was clear this wasn’t her first time. She lifted her head to blow the smoke upwards, watching it rise and dissipate above them.

For any sane man, it would have been a hypnotic sight, but all Peter could see was Morse lying on the grass one balmy summer night, sitting on his blazer with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’d stolen the cigarette right from Peter’s mouth, skin brushing skin as he did so, and he’d put his lips right where Peter’s had been to take a drag.

Back then the sight of it had caught Peter’s breath right in his throat, and it did the same now.

He didn’t want Joan in the same all-consuming way he wanted Morse, but the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he could achieve something here after all. No point rejecting all the attention she was throwing his way if that meant she wasn’t placing that attention elsewhere…

It was terrible, embarrassing, and reinforced every awful thing people used to say about him, but at least if Joan was looking his way she wouldn’t have the chance to look at Morse.

So, when she asked him if he’d ever been to the Moonlight Rooms, he shook his head and said he’d always wanted to see what the place was about. And when she told him to meet her there tomorrow evening, he obliged with a smile and offered to walk her home once she finished her drink. And he hated himself more with every word that left his mouth, but it was addictive knowing that everything he did took her that little bit further from Morse’s reach.

As Jakes dressed for his night out, switching his work suit for a comfortable sweater and patting some aftershave onto his neck, he realised he hadn’t been on a date in a while. Sure, he’d taken one or two girls home from a night on the booze and got his end away, but he hadn’t asked anyone out. Hadn’t dressed up for them, smiled politely and bought the drinks and held their hand.

He realised that he’d spent the last six months pretty much only thinking about Morse. Christ, he needed to sleep with someone. This was getting ridiculous.

So, he set off for his date with pretty much the only girl in the world he categorically could not sleep with. Peter couldn’t help but laugh at how pitiable he’d become.

The Moonlight Rooms weren’t half bad, actually. Once his pockets had stopped aching from the eye-wateringly expensive cocktail he’d bought Joan, it was easy to see why people would come here. All deep red lights and glamour, pretty twenty-somethings sauntering around in tight dresses, couples sneaking off to booths in dimly lit corners with an illusion of privacy.

Though on all accounts it tried to appear classy, the place was far from it. But it served a purpose. Made an awful lot of money for some grimy old man, no doubt. And it allowed Peter to dance with Miss Thursday to his heart’s content without the threat of being seen by anyone who cared who he was.

Wasn’t really a copper’s kind of haunt, what with the gang affiliations.

He was just starting to enjoy himself, actually. The alcohol was beginning to hit both of their systems, and Joan was dancing so close to him, and okay, maybe this wasn’t awful. He could fool himself just for a moment that he was doing this for honourable reasons.

That was, until the Inspector stormed in.

He and Joan both clocked him. Would be hard not to, with the fuss he was making, shouting at some old man sat at a table in the corner. Their eyes met, wide, and it took no discussion before they were slipping away into the crowd, turning a corner towards the bar and-

And Peter walked straight into someone, almost knocking the man back with the speed of the collision.

“Mind yourself,” came a voice that sounded immediately familiar.

Of course, when he turned back towards that voice, it was Morse’s eyes that met his. So much for this not being a place for coppers.

He’d been able to convince himself he wasn’t doing something awful, before. When it was just him and Joan it was so easy to look at her and tell himself this was a date. That he’d asked her out because she was keen and pretty, not because he was gut-wrenchingly, sickeningly in love with the man who fancied her. But with Morse here, his own guilt was a knife in the gut.

Joan’s hand in his suddenly felt like white-hot coal. He dropped it.

“Morse,” Joan greeted him, somehow sounding so effortlessly normal, though her eyes were those of a deer in headlights. Peter was sure that if he tried to speak, nothing but air would come out. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Morse’s face was somewhere between confused and angry, but he wrenched himself away for a moment to turn the corner and watch the Inspector’s confrontation. He could no longer hear Thursday’s voice, and the stunned silence on the dancefloor had become hushed chatter. It seemed whatever had happened was done now, though Peter didn’t think his feet would unstick themselves from the floor and allow him to check.

His heart was thundering so hard that it was difficult to breathe.

“Are you alright, Peter?” Joan nudged his hand.

He swallowed hard, trying to snap himself out of it. “Yeah… yeah, sure. Fancy getting out of here before your Dad spots us?”

She chuckled through an awkward smile. “I think that would probably be for the best.”

Morse was back, suddenly, his expression far more composed than it had been moments before. He barely acknowledged Peter’s presence, but the way he said, “I can walk you home, if you’d like, Miss Thursday,” was enough to boil Peter’s blood. That calm, calculated, passive aggression once again proving that Morse was the good guy, and Peter nothing more than a spineless creep.

“Oh, no need to trouble yourself, Peter was-”

“It’s no trouble, Miss Th-”

“Really, Morse, I can take her-”

The three of them walked across town together in stony silence.

Peter hung back a few paces behind, fingernails digging into his palms so hard his knuckles turned white.

It was bad enough knowing he’d done something awful, that he’d messed Joan about not even for his own gain, but for someone else’s misfortune. But it was worse still that, after everything, his sick karmic punishment was to watch as his actions brought together the very two people he’d been trying to keep apart.

Seeing the two of them walking together, paces synchronised, it just seemed right. She’d be the perfect height to stand up on her tiptoes and kiss him. The image made bile rise in his throat.

When they reached Joan’s driveway, her eyes lingered on Morse for just a second before she thanked them both for walking her home. Peter found himself for a moment not wanting her to leave, because suddenly he was faced with the prospect of being alone with Morse.

“So, you and Joan, eh?” Morse said once the warm glow of the Thursdays’ home disappeared behind a closed door. They turned back in the direction they’d come from, both of their flats being closer to the centre of town than the Inspector’s suburban home.

Peter stumbled over his words for a moment before forcing out, “oh, it’s nothing, really.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Morse gave him a scathing look. “Well, you’ve never struck me as one for settling down. But Miss Thursday, really? Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t want the exact same thing. I’ve seen how you look at her.”

“I… what?”

Peter huffed. “Well, it’s not exactly subtle-”

“No, I know what you said. But you can’t really be suggesting we’re the same here, can you? I’ll tell you what the difference is between you and I, Jakes, it’s that I have the decency and respect to know when to let something go. And that unlike you, I’m not willing to risk my skin or my job, just to get my end away.”

The anger was rising off him like heat haze.

“That’s not what I-” Peter stopped before he could dig himself into a hole. The real reason was far more reprehensible than anything Morse could conjure up in that deductive brain of his. “Look, it’s not like that, I’m sorry mate.”

Morse whipped his head around at that, fixing Peter with an acidic glare. “Don’t call me mate, like you’re not willing to mess Joan about just to keep her away from me. You’re a little old to be getting jealous over some girl, don’t you think?”

Peter hated this. He hated that Morse was finally looking at him, properly looking at him, but it wasn’t like it used to be. There was pure, unadulterated anger in those eyes, a side of Morse he’d never seen before. Peter hated that he’d driven himself to this, spent months sitting and waiting for Morse to want him again, so much that he could hardly think of anything else.

Most of all, he hated whatever this was between them. They were never friends, sure, but their early rivalry was never this bitter. Now Peter had started to worry that in all this time, the only thing he’d achieved was turning Morse into his enemy.

Fuck this.

“I’m not jealous over Joan.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Peter shook his head, desperately. “No, I’m not, I swear. Not like you think I am.”

Morse stopped walking. They were on a quiet sideroad now, no streetlights, lined with terraced houses on one side and a park on the other. This late at night, only a few solitary windows spilled warm light out onto the frosted pavement. Finally, Peter let himself look at Morse in the pathetic, utterly helpless way he’d been wanting to all this time.

“Okay, I was jealous of you, sure, but-”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Will you let me fucking finish, okay? Please, Morse? I… I didn’t go out with Joan because I didn’t want her to like you. It’s never been about her, I never wanted her in the first place, and I know it’s awful, so you don’t need to tell me.”

There was the tiniest twitch in Morse’s eyebrow, cogs turning in his head, that stupid analytical mind trying to make sense of the wretched man before him.

“I wasn’t jealous of you. I was jealous of her. Of how you looked at her.”

“Jakes…”

“You still owe me a cigarette, you know.”

“Jakes.” Morse grabbed a fistful of Peter’s jacket. Peter let out a choked sound, his legs turning to jelly under Morse’s glare. “Stop it. It’s in the past now.”

“But what if I don’t want it to be?”

Morse released his grip of Peter’s coat, and started walking again, head low, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Do you want to know why I kissed you, Jakes?” Morse didn’t listen for an answer, only for the sound of Peter’s footsteps jogging to catch up with him. “I had my resignation typed up, signed, in an envelope in my pocket. It’d been there all week; I’d drafted it probably a couple of days after I started at Cowley. But part of me didn’t want to merely give up like I did when I was a student, I’d rather have been kicked out.”

“So… what, were you hoping I’d just report you for coming onto me?” Peter felt sick at the thought of it, though it was no worse than the way he’d used Joan.

He heard a soft chuckle at that. “As much as I don’t want to give you the satisfaction, Jakes, I really did fancy you. I kissed you because I’d been wanting to for days, there was just this self-destructive thought at the back of my mind that perhaps you’d sell me out to get the bagman job back.”

“I didn’t, though. Never would have done.”

“Well, yes. And then I decided I wasn’t going to leave after all. But I’d already taken the risk, already handed you that bartering chip to use against me. Spent the first month terrified you would.” They were at Morse’s doorstep now. Peter felt tiny, standing a few steps below as Morse rummaged for his key. He was hanging onto the man’s every word no matter how laced with vitriol they were. “I never went back to you because I didn’t think I could trust you. And you’ve just proved exactly that, Jakes. You’re as spineless as the first day I met you.”

A moment later, Peter was faced only with a closed door. He stood in stunned silence, ears ringing like he’d heard a gunshot.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

In Peter’s defence, he would probably have apologised by now, had Morse not gotten shot and disappeared off to Whitney for months.

The night he got home from the Moonlight Rooms, he didn’t sleep at all. Smoked almost a whole pack before sunrise.

After that, he hardly looked up from his desk once. He knew Morse was there, just in the corner of his vision. It was impossible not to hear that awful, stilted typing, huffs of frustration as he worked on the Coke-Norris case. Somehow, no matter what Peter did, it was impossible to shake that skin-crawlingly horrible feeling that he’d never be able to look Morse in the eyes again.

And then that was it. For months. His dad had died, apparently. That and a gunshot wound, so taking some time in the slower paced County division was a fair call. At first, it was an ice-cold wave of relief, clocking on for his shift to find an empty desk opposite him, the first tentative rays of spring sunshine splaying across a typewriter that lay still and silent.

He still missed Morse though, after everything. Even if the man would do nothing but ignore him, somehow that was better than this absence, because Peter was still pitifully desperate for any scrap of attention Morse would give him.

Peter had been a confident man, once. Or at least he portrayed himself that way. It took a lot of re-invention in his teenage years, but by the time he started at the force, he’d given himself an image to maintain.

An expensive suit goes a long way, he found once he made it out of uniform. Just a little investment with his first paycheck as a detective. The cigarettes that had once only existed to ease his anxieties became part of who he was, so much so that people would be surprised to see him without one. And, well, the confidence emerged naturally from all that. Suddenly he had the power, the look of someone who got anything he wanted. Any trace of the boy he’d once been, of Little Pete, was buried under six feet of dirt.

Peter didn’t feel quite so confident now. He wasn’t sure he liked this hand-crafted version of himself anymore.

There had been very few times in the last five years or so that he’d wanted to kiss someone, and not been able to. But perhaps that was just because he’d never really, really wanted to kiss someone.

He didn’t think he’d ever been in love before either. Wasn’t sure he could. Maybe they’d trained that out of him.

These were things he’d refused to let himself think about for years, but something in the last few months had propped that long-forgotten door open. He’d spent so much time moping that he’d run out of things to be miserable about, so his mind helpfully supplied a whole host more.

Okay, so he wasn’t miserable the whole time. He got on with things. For the most part lived in a world where Morse didn’t exist, and almost enjoyed it.

He’d forgotten that quiet time before Morse, where cases had been open-and-shut, and not everything had to be solved by a mind addled by the Classics. It was nice, for once, not to constantly sit in second place. He’d told Morse time and time again that he wasn’t jealous, but maybe that had always been a lie.

It had taken weeks, but Peter finally began to settle in again. He was sleeping better, smoking less, his eyes no longer caught on the jarring sight of the empty desk opposite him.

And then.

Well, Morse was magnetised to this place.

No matter how far he strayed, he’d always find his way back.

It was so sudden, one day an empty office, and the next, Morse was back in his rightful place like he’d never been gone. Like the last three months had been a fever dream from which he’d only just awoken.

Morse’s desk sat right in the path of the mid-morning sun. Peter had gotten used to the straight path the sunlight took, a flare at the window splaying out across the room, marking out harsh lines between light and shade. There was an illuminated patch of floor just beside Peter’s chair, where he could reach his feet out and feel the warmth through his shoes.

Now, instead of the patch of sunlight, all Peter could see on the floor was the shadow of Morse, hunched over at his typewriter. The light bent around him in awkward angles, as if trying to approximate the path it had taken before he sat in its way.

He looked older, Peter thought.

A little under a year since the man had joined the force, and already you could see the toll it had taken on him. There was a heaviness in his expression that Peter didn’t remember being there when they first met.

He wanted to run his thumb along the crease settling between Morse’s brows, sculpt away the sternness there, and see Morse as he had been on his first day at the nick. As he had been when they’d spent that summer evening together almost a year ago.

Maybe he did know how to fall in love, after all.

He didn’t normally do birthdays, but Strange had asked some of the lads from the station to join him for drinks, and it seemed rude to turn down the invite when the alternative was drinking alone. It was weird, he didn’t think the man particularly liked him. That’s why he got on so well with Morse.

Peter figured it would be good to get out and have a bit of fun. He hadn’t done much of that lately; his usual group had at first asked him why he hadn’t been showing up to their nights out, but it wasn’t long before the calls stopped coming. He wasn’t sure they’d ever been a particularly nice bunch anyway.

He probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Morse was there, but it still twisted his gut to see him, ordering drinks at the bar with Strange. It wasn’t even guilt anymore, no, he was just getting butterflies like a teenager about someone he’d ruined any chance with.

Strange noticed him, and waved him over, just as Peter had hoped to arrive unnoticed. He swallowed back his cowardice.

“Jakes! Wasn’t sure you’d turn up, Morse said he’d put money on it.”

He could imagine the disdain in Morse’s tone as he’d said it, with that typical sneer of his that his face settled into so easily these days.

Morse was looking at him, and he could almost feel it before he saw it. Morse was looking at him, the realisation hit hard. For the first time in months, Peter didn’t feel invisible in the man’s presence, looked through like glass. He froze for a moment under that heavy gaze, air catching in his lungs, and Christ he felt like a little kid.

Say something. Say something.

“Oh, I’ll never turn down a drink. Happy birthday, by the way.”

Strange noticed a friend of his arriving, so he stood up to leave once the bartender brought his drink over. He took the pint glass in one hand and nudged Peter towards his seat with the other. “Reckon you can cheer this one up, Jakes? I’ll buy you a pint if you can get a smile out of him.”

He laughed, louder than he should have done, because honestly, he couldn’t remember the last time Morse smiled at him.

(He could still see it, Morse bathed in summer sunlight, almost shimmering, rose-tinted and golden. He’d made Morse laugh and the sight of it had sent shivers down his spine. Morse had smiled just for the joy of it, just because he was glad to be there and because he was looking at Peter.)

Then it was just the two of them. The pub was full, Friday night buzz, but he could barely hear it over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears. He watched the bubbles in his lager, tracing their race to the rim of the glass. “How was Whitney?”

“Quiet.”

“Glad to be back?”

Morse shrugged. “Can’t complain. It’s something to do.”

Peter could just strangle the man. He couldn’t make things easy. “You’re really gonna sit here being miserable all night, aren’t you? Christ, at least pretend to enjoy yourself for Jim’s sake; he didn’t invite you just to sit in the corner and mope.”

He received a glare at that, which was better than nothing.

“I’ve had witness statements more entertaining than this. Come on, mate, give me something to work with here.”

There was a hint of a smirk, poorly hidden behind a swig of ale. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, it felt like the two of them were actually getting along. “Don’t you have anything better to do, Jakes?”

“Well, I’ve got a pint wagered on this conversation, and I’d quite like to take Strange up on it, so no. No, I don’t.”

Morse considered him for a moment, a critical gaze stilled on him that left him feeling completely exposed. “If that’s all it’ll take to get rid of you, what do you say I buy that pint instead?”

“Buying me a drink? I thought I’d never see the day.”

“Seems a small price to pay for some peace and quiet.”

“Ah, but it’s not about that, Morse. It’s the principle.” Peter smirked. “I could buy myself a drink if I wanted. Point is, you’re a miserable old sod, and someone needs to change that. I’m taking up that mantle, see?”

Morse looked unimpressed. “You make it sound so noble.”

“Honestly, people get medals for this sort of stuff, Morse. Huge personal sacrifice in pursuit of the greater good, or something.”

He could tell Morse was trying to hold a straight face now, and more than that too. He hadn’t actively told Peter to get stuffed and leave him alone. Didn’t mock him with any bitterness. Maybe, finally, they were actually getting somewhere.

“Well, I’ll be sure to put in a good word to Bright, next I see him.”

“You better. Can’t have this kind of valour going unrecognised.”

The smile was there in his eyes, it just hadn’t quite reached his mouth yet. Morse was chewing at his bottom lip to bite it back. Peter scanned the room for Strange, ready to cash in that wager as soon as Morse gave him so much as a smirk.

Morse downed the dregs of his drink. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“You sneaky bastard.” But Morse was already halfway across the room on his way to the gents, leaving behind nothing but an empty glass. “That’s cheating!”

In Peter’s defence, he hadn’t planned to drink quite this much.

Strange had been bought a birthday pint by nearly everyone here, and the resulting state of inebriation left him remarkably generous in returning the favour every time Peter’s glass was emptied.

Peter bounced between tables, marvelling at how many friends Strange had managed to get together. He spent a few moments with each one, but never quite managed to chip his way into the conversations.

Morse wasn’t sitting by the bar anymore.

Come to think of it, Peter hadn’t seen him for a while.

It’s weird, he thought, that at first the thought of Morse being here had almost put Peter off the whole thing, almost had him change his mind about going out entirely. And yet now he was gone, Peter felt like there was no reason to stay.

No one would notice if he quietly slipped away home, that was for sure.

He finished his drink and headed off to the bathroom, weaving through the crowds at the bar, through a series of doors out towards the back.

Somehow though, in this old building with its narrow corridors, and through a haze of alcohol, the door he ended up at wasn’t what he’d expected. When he nudged it open, a cold wave of fresh air jolted him back to his senses.

The pub Strange had chosen for his little get-together was a nice one, a little way out of town. Ivy growing up the side of it, that kind of thing, and a little courtyard out the back with a few old picnic tables gathering moss.

And a figure in the corner, in shadow except for the light cast on his face by a lit cigarette.

So that’s where Morse had disappeared off to.

Even in the chill, his cheeks were flushed warm with alcohol. The damp air had drawn his hair into tight coils.

The sun had already dipped below the rooftops, but those last vestiges of daytime bathed Morse in a blueish glow, his pale skin almost disappearing into the background. There was a hint of warm light reaching out from the open doorway Peter was standing in, golden glow stretching into the courtyard, but it faded long before it reached Morse.

Peter took a step forwards, letting the door close behind him, and then the light was gone entirely.

Morse only noticed him when he heard the creak of old hinges. His head jerked upwards, ready to protest his peace being interrupted, but that indignant expression softened when he saw who it was. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Just watched as Peter wandered over in silence and took a seat at one of the benches.

Not too close to where Morse stood. Not imposing, just extending an olive branch that he hoped Morse would notice.

“Party not good enough for you, eh?”

Morse shrugged. “Just wanted some fresh air. What brings you out here?”

“I was looking for you, actually.”

“Hm?”

“Well, it’s not like I really know anyone else here. I figured you’d managed to sneak home without anyone noticing, so I was on my way out myself when I found this little hideaway.”

“You know Strange.” That little crease between Morse’s brows returned. It was there most of the time nowadays, comes with the territory he supposed, but some days it was deeper than others.

“Not properly,” Peter said. And, cautiously nudging the elephant in the room, he added, “not like I know you.”

It was a stupid comment, really; he only said it because he was tipsy, and he’d forgotten how to flirt. It was stupid because really, he barely knew Morse at all. Despite that brief moment of over-familiarity, their time together had been characterised by rivalry of both the friendly and bitter kind. They’d never just been friends, never really talked, didn’t know a damn thing about each other.

But it was so easy to say he knew Morse because the man was all he bloody thought about. He’d consumed so much of Peter’s conscious and unconscious mind for months, all over one stupid moment together in the grass. He wondered why Morse hadn’t had more success with birds if he could so easily capture Peter’s attention and hold it between his fingers all this time.

And it was certainly the alcohol at work, but a year’s worth of feelings bubbled up, and suddenly Peter was tongue-tied as everything he hadn’t been able to say over the last few months tried to come out at once.

“You know, I haven’t… I haven’t been out with her since. Joan, I mean.”

“Jakes-”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Peter.” There was a sternness in his tone that stopped Peter in his tracks. Morse set down his glass and narrowed the distance between them even more, sitting beside Peter so close that even in the low light, he could see the scattered constellation of freckles on Morse’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

He couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, even in amongst the head-spinning realisation that Morse had used his first name for the first time in as long as he could remember. “What?”

“I…” A sigh and a deep breath, as if Morse were about to offload the weight of the world from his back, but no words came. His mouth hung open, useless. “You know why.”

“No, Morse, I really don’t. I’m bloody sorry, that’s all I’ve wanted to say to you this whole time. I’ve barely spoken to you since you’ve been back because I just couldn’t bear the thought of it, but I’ve hated every second.”

Morse scrubbed his hands across his face, fingers dragging the skin outwards until they came to rest at his temples, supporting the weight of his head and the thoughts spinning through it as he hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees. “I know.”

It had been so long since they’d really talked, and Peter had gone over this conversation what felt like a hundred times in his head. Lying awake at night, he’d rehearsed his apology, picked apart every little thing he’d done wrong and made it right in the hope that Morse would be able to look him in the eye again. He had so much he wanted to say, because really, this was his last shot. If he left anything unsaid now, he wouldn’t have another chance.

After all this time, he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t at least let his feelings be known.

And yet, the words balled up into a lump in his throat.

The silence stretched on, unbearably heavy, until Morse broke it. “I let you wait and wonder, all this time. I could never really find the words. Not last summer, and not after the Moonlight Rooms. All this time and I’ve never just talked with you. That’s… that’s what I’m sorry for.”

That was it, really. That’s all it was. Just time wasted, in denial, neither willing to take the risk of being the first to speak. Almost a year lost, when this whole time, they could have just been friends.

All Peter could do was laugh at how ridiculous it was. “We couldn’t do it the easy way, could we.”

Morse met his eyes, and finally there was that smile Strange had wagered him on, but Peter couldn’t care less about the pint anymore. It felt like he’d been waiting for this his whole life, and yet even now he couldn’t tell if it felt more like an end or a beginning.

You could never tell, with Morse and his wistful looks.

“It’s late. I should head home.” Not this again, Peter thought. Not this God-awful dancing around each other like they didn’t know how they felt, he’d had enough of that for a lifetime.

“One for the road?” he hated how the words sounded falling from his mouth, but they were out in the air before he could stop them. He sounded so desperate, frantically clawing at his last chance to keep Morse within his grasp. Far from the confident, polished man so many saw him as.

“You’re drunk, Jakes. Sleep it off before work tomorrow.”

He didn’t want to look away, for fear that Morse wouldn’t be there when he looked back. “You called me Peter before.”

Morse’s hand was cold as he interlocked it with Peter’s and squeezed.

“Goodnight, Peter.”

Work was exceptionally busy over the next few days, with a bank holiday weekend and the first burst of warm weather. He hardly saw Morse, and even then, it was only across the room in passing. Somehow, they always ended up separated, working jobs halfway across the city from one another.

By Tuesday night, things had started to calm down, and vestiges of that heat wave were still yet to fade. Peter declined the offer of a lift home from one of his mates, and instead walked the longer route home through the park to grab a bit of fresh air while he could.

“Jakes?” came a voice from behind him, a familiar one. One that made him let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding in for the last three days.

When he turned back, there he was. Morse, a couple of metres behind him, sunset bathing his face in warm light. He was holding a pack of drinks in one hand.

Peter had a strange sense that they’d been here before.

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

Peter smirked, and narrowed his eyes. “You know, we do work together. I think you’d have an easier time finding me in the office.”

“I… I haven’t been avoiding you,” Morse added, frantic. “Just-”

“Just busy, yeah. Me too.”

It seemed they always danced this line, halfway between friendly banter and an overwhelming fear of scaring the other away. Because they’d never really learnt how to be friends, not after all this time working together. Peter had never admitted, even to himself, that he liked Morse as a person. Genuinely got on with him, physical attraction aside.

“I was going to ask if you fancied a drink, somewhere.” Morse lifted the pack of beers, with that glorious noise of glass bottles clinking together in a way that reminded him of summer afternoons. “Seeing as it’s starting to get warmer out. I don’t have a bottle opener on me, though, do you?”

“No, sorry mate, I don’t.” Peter shrugged. It was a lie. Like his lighter, he carried one in his coat pocket wherever he went. He was pretty sure Morse knew this. “I’ve got one back at my place, though.”

It was a lot easier to get Morse to smile than it had been at Strange’s party. Peter had forgotten how intoxicating the sight of it was. And the idea that they were finally back here, able to speak as friends, shrugging off the tension that had bricked up a wall between them in the last few months.

One day, months ago, Morse had left him in this same park, an unreadable look in his eyes. He’d left behind a trail of smoke from a stolen cigarette, faded into the dimly lit distance with Peter’s skin still alight from his touch.

This time, Morse followed him home, and his hand bumped into Peter’s every time they fell out of step with one another.

In the end, it could have been this easy all along.

Last time Morse had been Peter’s house, he’d been drunk and drenched in rain, and he’d passed out on the sofa in his work clothes but was gone without a trace by morning. Peter hoped he’d stick around a little longer this time.

Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle opener that had been there all along, before shrugging the jacket off and hanging it on the back of a chair. He took two drinks from the pack and opened them, enjoying the puzzled look on Morse’s face. “What, did you really think you were just coming here for a drink?”

He smiled again; Peter would never get sick of the sight of it. “Oh, the drinks are just a perk, I assure you.” Morse took the bottle that was offered to him but set it down on the table after just a sip. He snaked his arms around Peter’s waist, and even with a starched shirt separating skin from skin, the sensation of those hands on him was enough send shudders down Peter’s spine. “I just figured I owed you for the ones you bought last time.”

For a moment Peter wished they’d started drinking on the walk, so he had just that hint of booze to take the edge off and help him get his words together. But then again, after all the time he’d been waiting to have Morse all to himself like this, he’d be damned if he wasn’t stone cold sober to enjoy it.

“I’m not gonna lie, Morse, I haven’t spent the last year of my life just thinking about a drink you owed me. I’ve been waiting for a lot more than just that.”

“Like what?” Morse breathed against his cheek, not quite touching but close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. Peter stepped back to rest against the back of his sofa, and Morse followed him until they were pressed together, one leg slotted between Peter’s. Chest, stomach, hips, all aligned.

Morse was just a little shorter than him normally, but with Peter slouched against the sofa, Morse had just enough height to look down on him slightly. He didn’t normally feel small, like this, certainly not when he was with women, but it was a sensation he could easily get hooked on.

He rolled his head back and laughed because he thought the tension might actually kill him. “Christ, have you had all this up your sleeve the whole time? No wonder you have women throwing themselves at your feet, I never stood a bloody chance, did I?”

He was met with furrowed brows. Of course, Morse was just that clueless.

“Look, you’ve just got something about you that intrigues people. Enough that you’ve had my attention all year even when you spent most of it ignoring me. I had my mates asking me why I hadn’t been out with a girl in ages, you know, and I couldn’t exactly say I was head over heels for the new constable, could I?” He moved his hands up Morse’s arms, feeling the muscle that was always hidden under ill-fitting shirts, the tense shoulders, then short ringlets of hair at the base of his neck and his first touch of the warm skin that lay underneath. “All I’m saying, is you hide it well, but deep down you’re just an outrageous flirt. And even though I’ve spent all year pretending I wasn’t obsessed with you, somehow, I’m lucky enough that no one else has snatched you up in the time it took me to get my shit together.”

Morse dipped his head against Peter’s neck, but he could feel the smile radiating out from the man in a warm flush. Fingers gripped tightly at his shirt. “I… should have told you so long ago. I just didn’t know how to.”

“Well, we got there in the end, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” Morse murmured against his chest, before lifting his head up so once again he was gazing down at Peter from above. “And I think we’ve wasted enough time already.”

Peter’s hand was still at the base of Morse’s neck, and he used it to pull himself closer until the tip of his nose brushed Morse’s cheek. “I couldn’t agree more.”

They’d made things so difficult for themselves, this past year. Danced around each other, denying themselves even the relief of admitting what they really wanted. They’d fought each other, spent months in a miserable limbo while they couldn’t even bring themselves to talk. This moment, here and now, had been months in the making.

So it was ironic that inclining his head just a little to bring their lips together was the easiest thing Peter had done in his life.

It was exactly how he’d remembered it, but the waiting made it better. And there was more to it, this time round, without the fear of being seen, or the restraint of not knowing what the other wanted.

For the first time, Peter actually knew what Morse wanted.

He made it abundantly clear, with the frantic fingers fussing over shirt buttons, starting in the middle of Peter’s chest just desperate to reach skin more than anything else.

Peter wanted to tell him to get on with it, loosen the tie and collar that felt like they were constricting around him, but his mouth was somewhat preoccupied, and he didn’t really want that to stop. While Morse’s hand’s explored whatever skin they could reach, Peter’s clutched the back of the sofa. It was all he could do just to stay upright and keep breathing, legs threatening to buckle under his own weight.

Okay, this was not working. He needed to be lying down for this.

“Morse,” he breathed as he managed to break away for a moment. “Sofa.”

It was a messy tangle of limbs as they rushed together, both too tall to lie down comfortably so Peter settled reclining back against the arm of the chair and clawed Morse towards him, desperate to feel surrounded on all sides and crushed.

Morse’s attention was finally a little more focused now, and he set himself upon Peter’s shirt buttons with unsteady hands. The bottom of the shirt was easy enough, once it had been roughly yanked from Peter’s tightly belted waistband, and the tie was quickly dealt with, but in his urgency, Morse struggled with the stiff collar buttons, the ones Peter was most desperate to be rid of.

“Jesus, let me do it.” He wrenched Morse’s hands out of the way and fought with the two buttons himself. Once they were finally undone, Peter breathed in deeply, glad to be rid of the restriction.

Morse was still when he looked up at him, eyes wide, hands motionless for the first time in a while. He’d always been a confident man, but Peter suddenly felt insecure under that heavy gaze. “What’s going on in that big brain of yours, Detective?”

“Oh, nothing at all. Just objectifying you.”

He tugged at the shirt that now tangled at Peter’s shoulders, and Peter sat up to pull his arms from the sleeves and chuck the offending piece of fabric onto the floor. It would be creased by the morning, but he had better things to worry about now.

Like Morse’s fingertips grazing across skin, an electric sensation, tracing an unbearably slow path down Peter’s chest. His pupils were blown wide open, swallowing up almost all of that glorious blue Peter loved so much. He could see Morse trying to hold himself back a little and savour.

Peter wanted to savour this moment too, but his self-control was rapidly wavering, and there was only so much more waiting he could do.

He was about to say as much when he heard the click of a buckle, and felt a warm hand dip below his waistband, and that was enough to interrupt any thoughts he’d been having. Peter let himself fall back against the cushions, because he couldn’t exactly be expected to support his own bodyweight while the man that he’d been waking up hard over for months had a hand around him.

Trying to focus on breathing, Peter reached out, aching to get his hands on Morse’s skin, but he wasn’t even out of his jacket yet. That was probably Peter’s own fault but, in his defence, he’d had other things on his mind at the time.

He groaned, and stilled Morse’s hand. “As much as I absolutely don’t want you to stop, Morse, you’re making me feel underdressed.”

Morse slid his blazer from his shoulders and let it crumple up behind him, which boiled Peter’s blood. He could never stand to see a suit poorly cared for, and though Morse didn’t seem the type for bespoke tailoring, even a cheap blazer needed hanging up properly.

Mostly, Peter’s legs were going numb, and he wanted an excuse to get Morse into his bedroom. On the way, he draped Morse’s jacket over his own on the back of a chair.

He used a hanger, normally, but again it wasn’t really about the suit, and more the need to get to a more suitable location.

And get Morse’s shirt off. That was his main priority.

He’d always wondered how far down those freckles go.

It was all remarkably easy after that.

Not much had changed, only this time when he snuck looks at Morse on the other side of the office, he’d make eye contact with Morse doing the same. Instead of mocking him for working late, Peter would spend the evening trying to lure him back home with the promise of fish and chips.

Morse ate lunch a lot more often now, and those sunken eyes he’d returned from Whitney with had now filled out a little.

They’d just wrapped up a case they’d been working on for weeks, so Thursday’s suggestion of a break for lunch was welcomed with open arms.

They even managed to drag DeBryn out with them, the promise of sunshine a nice break from his usual place of work. He and Strange were at the bar together when Peter arrived, so he joined them as Morse and the Inspector went to find a table.

“Wotcher.” He took the space next to Strange, who had DeBryn on his other side. “If I remember rightly, you still owe me a drink.”

“Care to remind me?” Strange looked puzzled.

“You bet me a pint I couldn’t get a smile out of Morse. I’ll have you know I spent the best part of the evening trying to cheer that bastard up.” Strange rolled his eyes but acquiesced, grabbing the bartender’s attention to ask for an extra drink on top of his existing order.

DeBryn raised his brows. “You too, Jakes? It seems Jim has been rather unlucky with his wagers as of late.”

“Hm?” Peter tried to decode an unreadable look that passed between the other two as Strange counted out the coins to pay for the three drinks. “What was your bet then, Doc?”

There was a pause, another look that Peter couldn’t decipher. Then Strange snorted right into his drink, poorly stifling a laugh that was fighting its way out of his throat. Peter watched on in bewilderment as Strange battled for composure, and DeBryn too, smirked about some joke that Peter wasn’t in on.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly comment, Jakes,” DeBryn said after a moment. “But this has been a far more long-standing agreement than your little wager on Friday. How long would you say it’s been, Jim?”

Still red faced, with tears in his eyes as he fought back a fresh wave of laughter, Strange shrugged. “I dunno, it’s got to be a good six months, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, I do believe it was around autumn. I have to say, I was starting to lose hope, but you pulled through in the end.”

“Me?” Peter was lost now, watching Strange try to shush DeBryn through yet another fit of laughter. “You’ve had a bet on me for half a year? What the fuck is going on?”

For a moment, Peter thought he’d never find out what the two of them had been gossiping about behind his back for the last few months, but Strange finally composed himself with a shaky breath. “The Doc just had a tad more faith in you and Morse than I did. I bet him you’d never suck it up and tell him how you felt.”

Peter froze. There was that moment of panic, at first, because of course he’d done everything he could to keep his relationship away from prying eyes. He lived in a constant state of fear that they’d be discovered, tempered only by the thought of running away somewhere quiet and starting anew as soon as anyone figured them out. They could go anywhere, really. World was their oyster. Although the rest of the world wasn't Oxford.

But the instinctive fear faded once he had time to process Strange’s tone. There was no accusation there, no malice. And yet somehow both of them knew. How could they possibly know? He tried to trace back the past few days for any moment he’d been with Morse outside of work, but every single one they’d kept their distance from each other, walked side by side as friends, snuck in and out of each other’s flats under cover of darkness.

“Wh- how?” was all he could muster as his mind raced.

The doctor smirked. “Jim may not be a detective, but I can’t say the clues you gave him were particularly hard to decode. Even I figured something was going on, and I scarcely see you two aside from the occasional post-mortem.”

“But… I… but there was nothing? We didn’t… there wasn’t-”

“Matey.” Even though Strange was grinning at Peter’s confusion, he had a hand on Peter’s shoulder, and squeezed, and it was oddly comforting. “I’ve got eyes, and I’ve had to watch you two day in, day out, all year. All you do is bloody stare at each other looking miserable as sin, it’s awful. I had half a mind to lock you in a broom cupboard and wait for nature to take its course, but then DeBryn and I decided we could have a bit more fun with things.”

“And how-”

“How did I know you’d sorted yourselves out? Like I said, I’m not blind. I figured I’d have to pay out my side of the bet as soon as I saw you two together this week; it was the first time either of you looked like you’d slept properly in months.”

Peter was stuck halfway between being mortified that him and Morse had been so insufferably blatant this whole time, and feeling an overwhelming wash of relief that people knew about them, and the world hadn’t ended yet. They didn’t need to know that biting down on the inside of his mouth was the only thing keeping back a sudden wave of emotion, as some part of his younger self felt acceptance for the first time. His jaw ached at the force of keeping composure.

Through all that, he managed a smile as he sipped from his drink. “Well then, glad to be of service, Doc. I’ll be sure to let Morse know we’ve given you so much entertainment lately.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Strange scoffed. “More like watching paint dry. I’m happy for you, but more than anything else I’m glad I don’t have to watch the two of you moping around each other on the daily.”

“Morse?” Peter whispered. “Morse.”

It was late, but he couldn’t sleep. As much as he enjoyed the warmth of a body next to him, he was a fussy sleeper, and Morse’s incessant fidgeting had somehow left Peter with only a measly corner of duvet. And Morse’s curtains were too thin, letting in enough light to prod at Peter’s growing hangover.

God, he was getting old, if only a few pints was enough to give him a headache.

“Hmph?”

“Morse,” Peter repeated, still softly but a little louder this time.

Morse rolled over to face him, and their faces were close enough that the warmth of breath filled the space between them. He was hazy, half asleep, and it gave Peter the chance to wrench a bit more of the quilt and bring himself closer to Morse. “What?”

Peter realised he didn’t really know what he’d wanted to say, because looking at Morse’s face through a haze of tiredness and the residual buzz of alcohol, a feeling he couldn’t quite describe hit him like a brick wall.

This was it, all he needed, all he wanted, all he’d thought of for longer than he cared to admit. And he had it, right here in his arms, warm and bleary-eyed with a line of drool running from the corner of his mouth. Peter wanted to capture this moment, live in it forever, but instead he drew Morse in and kissed him softly.

Even as their bodies aligned and skin met skin, there was no heat to it. It wasn’t that sort of kiss, this was different, it was…

Oh.

That was the feeling he couldn’t describe before.

“Morse, I-” he breathed, so quiet he could barely hear himself, “God, I love you.”

There was a chuckle, which Peter had half a mind to be offended by. “I knew that. Is that all you woke me up to say?”

He shoved Morse away from him, because he really couldn’t just let a moment be lovely, could he? “No, I was actually going to ask you to stop bloody wriggling, I’m trying to sleep here.”

Morse huffed. He straightened out the crumpled duvet, and laid it over the two of them, and then he settled in the crook of Peter’s shoulder so his hair tickled Peter’s chin and their legs could tangle down below the sheets. “You know I love you too, right?”

“Course I do.”